


hit me double hard

by spectre_tabris



Series: hit me double hard au [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, F/F, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Panic Attacks, Pining, Queer Cassandra Pentaghast, Slow Burn, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-05-18 11:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 100,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5927409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectre_tabris/pseuds/spectre_tabris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Kyra Lavellan is a little in love, Cassandra is oblivious, and Dorian is entertained.</p><p>Also there's a plot or something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Marina & the Diamonds song "The Outsider."
> 
> All thanks to [archertethras](http://archertethras.tumblr.com) on tumblr, without whose encouragement and support this would never have seen the light of day.

What is she _doing_ here?

Kyra curls her arms around herself as she half-listens to the presentation, paying more attention to the way the speaker’s calm voice rises and falls than to his actual words. There is only so much she can bring herself to care about revisionist literature and respecting cultural traditions and she passed that point about fifteen minutes ago.

It is a valid enough question - this is not her department, not her subject. She does not belong here. _He_ does. Or he did. For nearly a year she has avoided any reminders of him: she changed schools, changed cities, changed friends (well, she’s still working on that one). And yet here she is, attending a conference sponsored by the Literature department like nothing happened. More than once she has turned to the side intending to deliver a smart comment or critique of the current speaker, only to be blindsided by the sharp ache in her heart at the sight of an empty chair where she expects brown eyes and a wicked grin. She traces her thumb along a seam in the soft leather of the glove covering her left hand, lost in old memories. When she realizes what she is doing she yanks it away, swallowing against the sudden lump in her throat. She cannot dwell on it. Not here.

She sits trapped in her own thoughts, oblivious to the lecture’s end and the people who file past her. As the last conference attendee leaves the room a man drops into the empty seat to her left, a disposable coffee cup clutched in either hand. Kyra’s shoulders tense, her fingers clenching around the arm of her chair as he holds one of the cups out to her. A wisp of steam curls out of the hole in the lid and clouds the air between them. He is handsome, she acknowledges as her suspicious stare shifts from the cup to his face, with flawless dark skin, pale eyes, and a moustache straight off an 80’s TV villain that should look ridiculous yet somehow he manages to pull off. She has no idea who the fuck he is.

“Don’t worry, it won’t bite,” he assures her with a smirk. A vise wraps around Kyra’s chest at the realization that _yes_ , he is talking to her and _no_ , he does not seem to be leaving despite her silence. This is not a situation she has prepared for and she does not know how she is supposed to react. Her throat closes as she feels the walls close in on her; she can’t get enough air into her lungs. It takes every ounce of willpower she possesses to force down the urge to run. Run where, she doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. As long as it is away from here.

“You looked like you could use a pick me up,” he explains when she makes no move to accept the drink. “I could see you nodding off during the presentation. That’s quite rude, you know, even if I understand the urge. Solas has that effect on people.”  

Though she searches for a way to explain that she was distracted, not falling asleep, in such a way so as to discourage any further conversation and chase him away as quickly as possible, she comes up empty handed and decides the distinction is not worth the effort.

“Look, I’m trying to be noble and thoughtful here and you are ruining it. Just take the coffee, would you?”

He holds the coffee cup in front of her nose and waggles it back and forth. Kyra relents, more to make him stop talking than out of any real desire for caffeine. Her hand shakes as she reaches for the cup and she has to take a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself lest she spill the drink all over the both of them. Though his eyes flick to the glove on her hand, at her glare he keeps any comments to himself. She would give him points for catching a hint but he would have started so far in the negatives just for trying to talk to her that there would be little fun in playing that game.

She wraps both hands around the cup, letting out a breath of a sigh as warmth seeps into the chilled fingers of her bare hand. “If this is your way of trying to get into my pants,” she says, voice thick as she attempts to speak around the golf ball sized lump of panic in her throat, “I’ll warn you right now that you’re wasting your time. You’re not my type.” She pairs this statement with another glare as she takes a sip of the coffee, hot and bitter on her tongue. This would not be the first time someone saw her as an easy mark, quiet and awkward and clearly uncomfortable. For some reason people seem to assume that all she requires are a few kind words and a sympathetic ear and she’ll fall into bed with them. She has never understood the belief that “socially awkward” and “desperate” are synonymous.

“Nonsense,” he declares, one long-fingered hand fluttering up to cover his heart, “I am everyone’s type. Unless it’s that I am _too_ handsome and charming. I understand it can be intimidating, interacting with someone as attractive as I am.”

Kyra snorts into her coffee, his easy manner and casual arrogance chasing away some of the anxiety still curling in her gut. He has no idea how fortunate he is that she realizes he is joking. If she hadn’t, this conversation would have gotten ugly fast. Instead she shrugs and hides the beginnings of a smile behind the rim of her cup.

“You are very attractive,” she assures him and the amusement in her voice is not as easy to disguise. The way he preens so blatantly at the compliment ensures she takes extra pleasure in her next words. “You’re also very male.”

She watches as he processes her statement, waits for the inevitable disappointment or disgust. Instead there is shock, which she had expected, but also...is that _delight_? His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles at her - a genuine smile, not a smirk this time - and Kyra flounders, caught off-script. This is _not_ how this conversation is supposed to go. He is supposed to get frustrated and stalk off in search of easier conquests. He is not supposed to be pleased. _Fuck_. 

“Indeed.” His smile widens into a grin and he sketches out the closest thing to a bow he can manage from where he is crammed into the tiny auditorium seat, careful of the drink in his hand. “Dorian Pavus, at your service,” he announces, completing the gesture with an elegant little flourish that ends with his free hand extended for her to shake.

“I - Kyra. Kyra Lavellan,” she stutters out after a long pause. She reaches out to take his hand, flinching at the unexpected warmth of his palm against hers. How long has it been since she last touched someone? She can’t remember, which she supposes is answer enough.

Dorian settles back into his seat, all long limbs and an easy grace that Kyra cannot help but envy, just a little. She ignores it. Better to focus on the easing of the pressure in her chest, the way she can breathe without interference. She is oddly comfortable around this man.

“Thank you for the coffee, Dorian Pavus,” she says instead, mimicking the careful way he had enunciated his name, his sharp consonants and gentle vowels.

Dorian tips his head at her. “It was my pleasure, Kyra Lavellan.” Her name sounds strange on his tongue, his accent twisting it into something liquid and unfamiliar. “Oh!” He sits up once more, one hand reaching into the front pocket of his tailored trousers. “I nearly forgot. I brought sugar, in case you turned out to be the kind of heathen who desecrates their drinks with such things.” He holds out the small white packets with a flourish, a lord bestowing gifts upon a poor peasant. Kyra presses the tips of her fingers against her lips to muffle the giggle that threatens to escape and shakes her head.

“No. Not that particular kind of heathen, at least.”

Dorian’s eyes flick to her vallaslin but he does not otherwise react to her comment, just tucks the packets back into the pocket from whence they came. He regards her with a curious stare.

“Tell me something, Lavellan,” he says after a long moment of surprisingly companionable silence. “What exactly is the point of attending a conference if one is going to sleep through such scintillating lectures as Doctor Solas’s ‘The Downfall of Pre-Andrastian Literature: How Religious Censorship Ruined Traditional Epics’?” The sheer amount of disdain he fits into the statement is impressive. It is not difficult to tell to which side of that particular debate he belongs. Kyra cocks her head to one side and considers him for a moment before she allows herself to react.

Her instinct is to push him away, to stand up and walk out of the room, back to her apartment and her classes and her thesis. It is how she has responded to any attempts at socialization since - well, for the last ten months. She can’t deal with people anymore: they are chaotic, they are messy, and they _hurt_. Easier to isolate herself among her books and her equations, familiar and safe.

But… she cannot remember the last time she had a conversation that didn’t revolve around her studies. She cannot remember the last time she laughed (yes, she can: it was evening and he was making dinner and she - _no_ . No, she cannot remember). And she _likes_ this Dorian Pavus, though not in the way he had accused, likes his humor and his (feigned) arrogance and the way he brought a stranger coffee just because she looked like she needed it. And she feels less like fleeing than she has since the fire.

So instead of making her excuses and walking away, she tucks her legs underneath her, turns to face Dorian properly for the first time, and lets herself smile.

“He isn’t that bad,” she argues. It is far too ridiculous a sentence to have the effect it does on her, but as the words tumble from her nervous lips she feels lighter, less weighed down by weariness and grief.

Dorian gives her a skeptical look, one elegant eyebrow arched, and she flushes. “Okay, so the hate-boner he has” - here Dorian chokes on air and she has to pause while he recovers if she wants there to be any chance that he might hear her next words - “for Guala Bicchieri is a little strange, I’ll admit, but he does have a point. The fact that what we know about Old Ferelden literature is almost entirely dependent upon translations and recordings done by priests who we _know_ altered aspects that went counter to their religious beliefs is a travesty. We’re missing so much cultural context that was removed because it clashed with the dominant religion hundreds of years later.”

Dorian cuts her off before she has a chance to expound on the concept any further. “And if the priests hadn’t written them down, we wouldn’t have them at all. Is it ideal? No. But that doesn’t mean that-”

“They didn’t have to _mutilate_ the stories if they-”

“But if you actually look at-”

 

* * *

 

The conversation - she would call it an argument were it not for the oddly companionable nature of the entire discussion - continues long after the conference has ended and the custodial staff has evicted them from their appropriated lecture hall. By mutual agreement they head to the Herald’s Rest, the nearest bar that still serves food so late in the evening, and order appetizers and alcohol, the whole time bickering like an old married couple (or like siblings, but Kyra can’t think of it like that, won’t). They are on their second round, not enough for Kyra to be even tipsy but enough for a pleasant warmth to curl through her veins (and when did she last have a drink? she can’t remember that, either, the memory slipping like sand through her fingers) when Dorian grabs her phone from the table without so much as a by-your-leave and starts tapping away at it. Kyra narrows her eyes, a brief thread of concern knotting her stomach. She begins to regret her decision to leave her phone unlocked (why would she need to lock it? It is never out of her sight and no one has been around who might snatch it from her. Until now). There is the muted click of the camera app before Dorian hands the phone back, all smiles and smugness. She glares at him for a moment longer, just for effect, but when he ignores her she grumbles under her breath and checks to see what havoc he has wreaked on her poor, innocent phone.

Dorian’s face smirks up at her from the screen (and _of course_ he is the kind of jackass who can pull off stunning selfies with no apparent effort; why would she ever have thought otherwise?) and she understands. He has added himself to her contacts. She ignores the little bubble of warmth in her chest at the realization - she hasn’t driven him away, he wants to stay in contact, he likes her, maybe they can be _friends_ and isn’t that a strange thought? - in favor of glaring at him some more.

“You could have just asked,” she points out, but to her dismay the words come out more fond than irritated.

“True, but this way is much more fun. Did you know the corner of your mouth twitches when you’re annoyed? It’s hilarious.”

Any chance she might have had at convincing him that her anger is genuine vanishes as she taps out a single word text message and sends it to him, ensuring that he has her number as well. She then alters his contact information to read “pretentious dick,” purely out of spite.

Dorian’s pocket beeps as her message comes in. He pulls it from his pocket, a sleek little thing that Kyra doesn’t have a hope in hell of affording any time soon, and chuckles softly as he reads the text.

“Oh yes, very mature, Lavellan,” he mutters. Kyra sticks her tongue out at him. Because she can. She pulls her half-empty glass of… something fruity and bright with a terrible, cutesy name (it had been Dorian’s turn to order drinks and he had thrust the abomination in front of her with an angry mutter about the quality of the wine selection here) closer to her, sinking deeper into the booth’s plastic cushions.

“I have a question,” Dorian says into the silence that falls between them. He does not mention their antics of the last few minutes, letting their unspoken agreement to keep in contact remain just that - unspoken. Kyra is one hundred percent in support of this idea.

“Ask,” she offers without hesitation, “though I reserve the right to tell you to fuck off.” She doubts she will need to, however. He has been the epitome of respectful for their entire interaction: not once has he mentioned her hand or the way she flinches when someone’s voice gets too loud or how painfully obvious it is that she has not held a normal conversation in months. He has dropped entire trains of thought the moment he realizes they are upsetting her without question or condemnation. He has been… thoughtful.

“I would expect no less.” He takes a drink of his own horrifically pink concoction without the slightest hint of shame. “My question to you is this: today’s conference was limited to staff and students at Skyhold University, yet I have never seen you before tonight. And I know everyone in the department, so don’t try to tell me we just haven’t run into each other. So how did you sneak in?”

She gives a soft hum, considering the question. “I take it you’re a professor, then?” she asks in lieu of an answer. There is no way he is an undergraduate and more than once in their arguments she has noticed his voice slip into the familiar cadences of an instructor. A professor seems a safe assumption.

“Not exactly,” he says. “I am collaborating with one of the professors in the Classical Studies department on some post-doctoral work in the field.” He fixes her with a narrow stare as something crashes at the bar behind her. She cringes at the sound but he doesn’t mention it, just pauses for a moment to give her a chance to recover. “And that was neither an answer nor a ‘fuck off’.”

“No, I suppose it wasn’t, was it?” She shrugs, fingers drawing designs in the condensation on her glass. “I didn’t sneak in. I’m a doctoral student at the university, just not in the Literature department.” She leaves it at that and watches Dorian purse his lips in consternation when it becomes clear that she has no intention of elaborating. There is a niggling feeling in the back of her mind that she should not enjoy frustrating him as much as she does.

“Oh, very well, I’ll bite. What _are_ you studying, then?”

She grins at him, a bright flash of teeth. “Guess.”

He grumbles but she sees the corner of his mouth quirk into a smile, ruining the sleek line of his moustache. “Really? We’re playing that game, are we?” His fingers tap out a patternless rhythm on the wooden tabletop as he considers.

A cheer erupts from the bar; Kyra squeezes her eyes shut and forces herself to ignore it.

“If not Literature then judging by our recent discussion I would assume history. However, if it were that obvious you would not bother to have me guess: there would be no fun in it. A classical studies degree would mean that I would have met you long before now. Philosophy, then?” He ends it as a question but there is a certainty to the words that tells her he believes he has guessed correctly. She snickers.

“The natural sort, perhaps.” At his obvious confusion, she clarifies. “Physics. The first physicists were called natural philosophers?”

“ _Physics_ ,” he repeats, face scrunched up as though he tastes something foul. “What is a _physicist_  doing arguing Old Ferelden literature? And arguing it intelligently?”

“I am a woman of many talents,” she informs him archly. He fixes her with a sharp stare that tells her in no uncertain terms that he is not fooled by her attempt at nonchalance, but he does not press the issue.

“What about you?” she asks, eager to shift the subject to something a little less liable to drive her into a state of complete emotional breakdown. “What are you and this professor of yours studying?”

“I’m working with Professor Alexius, if you’re curious. We’re attempting to properly translate-”

 _That’s it_ , she decides as the conversation shifts to his project and the (apparently) myriad problems with modern translations of Ancient Tevene texts and how (obviously) this is a travesty that must be rectified, _I’m keeping him_.


	2. Chapter 2

“I just don’t understand how they _manage_ it. Every fucking week something explodes or gets launched across the room or… _argh_!”

Kyra fists her hands in her hair, a growl rumbling from her throat. Dorian moves to pat her on the shoulder but she dodges his reaching hand with a snarl.

“Oh, you can take your false sympathy and stuff it,” she snaps, waiting until he has settled back into his seat, hands raised in surrender, before she drops her head back down onto the table.

Two months have passed since that conference and in those months Kyra has spent more time in Dorian’s company than out of it. She thinks she should be more concerned than she is about how quickly they went from complete strangers to best friends (though she will acknowledge that the title is less impressive than it sounds, at least on her part - as her _only_ friend, Dorian’s status as “best” friend is given), but she cannot bring herself to care. She is happier than she has been in almost a year: she will not risk that.

They are sitting in the Herald’s Rest once more, at the same table as that first night. Over the last few weeks they have unofficially claimed it for their own, as it has become something of a tradition for the pair of them to meet at the bar on Friday nights to have a drink and unwind after the stress of the workweek.

And apparently for Dorian to mock her pain.

“I apologize for my heinous disregard for your emotional trauma,” he tells her, mock-solemn. “Please, regale me with the tale of this week’s laboratory misadventures.” Kyra’s wadded-up napkin hits him squarely between the eyes and he pouts at her as it bounces to the floor. “That was uncalled for.”

Kyra shrugs, considering the plate of half-eaten fries sitting between them. If she takes one now, it will leave a grease smudge all over her fingers and she no longer has anything with which to clean it off. Throwing the napkin might not have been her greatest idea ever, she concedes, then snags another fry anyway.

This semester Kyra has been given the dubious honor of supervising an Introductory Physics lab session on Friday afternoons. It should not be an issue - she did the same thing last semester with no real problems - but…

“I honestly do not understand how they do it,” she finally snaps, the urge to rant overwhelming her desire to snub Dorian until he shows the proper respect for her ordeal. “The lab was literally just sliding metal carts down a ramp. Little triangles of metal, like, this big.” She holds her hands about five inches apart and then makes a motion that is supposed to diagram the shape of the carts in question - something akin to a Risk piece, only several times larger - but ends up looking more like she is using some obscure yet vulgar gesture to insult Dorian’s mother. At this point the corners of Dorian’s mouth are trembling with the effort of hiding the smile that she knows lurks there. “It’s really not complicated. But I look away for two _fucking_ seconds and somehow Dagna’s turned the ramp into some sort of portable missile launcher while Sera’s twisted the carts into tiny instruments of flying death! I don’t understand how they managed it. They’re freshmen. They shouldn’t know how to do that shit. _I_ don’t know how to do that shit. It would be impressive if it weren't so damn infuriating.” She slumps back against her seat right as Dorian’s self control shatters and he breaks out into low chuckles.

“I believe at this point it is customary to refer the matter to your supervising professor,” he points out between laughs. She shoots him a baleful stare.

“I tried. Roderick doesn’t believe me,” she grinds out. She winces at the unmistakable whine in her voice but brushes it off: it isn’t like Dorian hasn’t heard far worse from her over the last two months. Her pride is unsalvageable at this point. “I think he’s trying to decide whether I’m overreacting due to some sort of ‘female hormones’ or I’m secretly a homophobic asshole trying to get them kicked out because their relationship offends my delicate sensibilities. Or possibly he thinks I’m just prejudiced against engineering majors. Who the fuck knows what’s going through that bastard’s head.” She leans back with a huff and crosses her arms across her chest, kicking her feet against the wooden base of the booth. While she is convinced Professor Roderick has it in for her, she can’t figure out why. She has a whole host of possible reasons, starting with her ears and ending with her breasts, but without proof she is hesitant to accuse him of being some sort of racist or sexist shithead. There is enough on her plate without opening up that particular can of worms. For all she knows he just has no faith in her ability to control a classroom. She wouldn’t blame him: she has doubts enough of her own.

“Gah. Enough. I don’t wanna talk about those two miscreants anymore. Your turn to bitch about something. Go for it. Make me feel better about my miserable life.”

Dorian hums in thought before a wicked grin breaks across his face. It makes Kyra shift nervously in her seat - that kind of look has never boded well for her.

“Felix will be in town next weekend,” he tells her, dragging each word out to extend whatever warped pleasure he is taking from her reaction. Kyra waits for the rest of his statement: this is not cause for concern on her part. She has never met Felix Alexius, the son of Dorian’s mentor, but she knows Dorian and anyone who has earned his regard cannot be _too_ horrible. Something worse is yet to be shared. “It would seem he is determined to make the most of his time here. I received an email from him this afternoon inviting me - and a friend, Felix is thoughtful like that - to the party he is hosting at his father’s estate next Saturday. You’ll be joining me, of course.”

And there it is. The blood drains from Kyra’s face as she scrambles for an excuse - she knows Dorian will not take “but I don’t want to” as an acceptable reason to skip out.

“I already have plans, sorry,” she fumbles out. She winces: even she does not believe her words. Dorian shakes his head.

“You do not. You don’t have a Saturday class, your lab is closed, your tutoring appointment ends at eleven, you have no family in town, and I’m your only friend.” He ticks the reasons off on long fingers, smile growing with each one. There is no insult intended, she knows; he is only stating the facts. She cannot even bring herself to mind the clear disapproval in his voice - her isolationist tendencies have been a bone of contention between the two of them from the day they met. If she could bring herself to tell him _why_ she kept so far removed from “normal” socialization, why she tries to hold people at arm’s length, she knows he would stop pushing. But that involves talking about things that she has spent nearly a year suppressing to the best of her ability and she cannot do it. So she maintains her silence and suffers through Dorian’s attempts to drag her out of her shell, at least a little. He does not expect her to become some sort of social butterfly, he told her once, but relying solely on him as the extent of her social life is far from healthy. Granted, his explanation had involved far more self-aggrandizement and comments about his utter magnificence, but the intent was the same.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he offers as she sits in sulking silence. “The party isn’t for another week. If you can manage to make other plans - actual plans, mind you, not something you make up to get me off your back and don’t try to lie to me, you know I’ll be able to tell - then I won’t force you to come with me.”

“You’re an ass,” Kyra mutters, popping another fry into her mouth with more force than truly necessary. She briefly regrets not ordering the potato chips, instead. The satisfaction of crunching those to bits might have distracted her from the desire to wring Dorian’s scrawny neck. “You’re an ass and I hate you.”

“I am fantastic and you adore me,” Dorian corrects, reading her surrender in the words. She flips him off and refuses to say anything else on the subject. After a moment of stubborn silence, Dorian sighs and starts into a story from his time as an undergraduate, when Felix was his roommate-slash-moral compass. It is not the first such story she has heard but that does not lessen her enjoyment of it. Dorian is a wonderful storyteller, his dry humor and flair for the dramatic turning even the dullest of tales into an epic worthy of song.

He is halfway through describing some sort of adventure involving a frat house, a can of purple spray paint and a small terrier (Kyra had been distracted planning the many creative ways she would be getting her revenge for this stunt with the party and had only caught one word out of every three) when the front door of the bar swings open, blasting the patrons inside with a gust of frigid mountain air. Kyra snaps her head up to level a glare at whichever jackass is apparently incapable of closing the _Creators-forsaken door_ but freezes halfway through the motion.

Her first thought is that she is dreaming. She must be. She has fallen asleep at the table and when she wakes up Dorian will have taken a series of increasingly unflattering pictures to use as blackmail material at a later date. But a quick pinch to her thigh through her too-large jeans disproves that theory. Which means that unless Kyra is hallucinating (and she is nowhere near drunk enough for that) four of the most attractive women she has ever seen have just walked into the bar. In the time it takes for her eyes to widen and her suddenly-dry mouth to fall open, her irritation at the cold air had evaporated. She is no longer even certain why she was so annoyed in the first place.

The bar is too dim to make out details from where she is sitting, but even so Kyra can’t tear her eyes away. A slender redhead leads the group, weaving through the Friday night crowd with enviable grace as she makes her way to the bar. At her side a dark-skinned woman beams around the room with the earnest sort of pleasure of someone genuinely happy to be there, dark hair pinned up and golden jewelry flashing in the bar’s inconstant lighting. A tall black woman stands behind them both, regarding the crowd with her chin held high, a queen among the common rabble. The fourth member of their group follows several steps behind and unlike her companions she does not seem particularly pleased with the situation. Her head is constantly turning, gaze lingering on doors and windows and the biggest, loudest patrons. Kyra recognizes someone identifying threats when she sees it, and there is no question that that is exactly what this woman is doing. She moves with a predator’s easy grace and looks as though she expects an attack at any moment. When she turns her head in Kyra’s direction, the sickly yellow bar lights illuminate cheekbones sharp enough to cut and a jagged scar along her jaw. With the aura the woman gives off, Kyra suspects that if someone _were_ to attack any one of the four, the only one who would get hurt would be the assailant.

It takes Dorian only a moment to realize that he has lost her attention. He starts to sulk, lower lip jutting out into a pout right up until he catches the direction of her gaze. Before she can stop him he has twisted around in his seat to see what has her so enraptured. She can feel the blood rush to her face when he turns back around with a gleam in his eye and an air of smugness that speaks of more than just catching her admiring some attractive women, and a growing sense of dread pools in her gut.

“I _see_ ,” he murmurs, drawing the syllables out far longer than necessary. Kyra starts to shake her head: whatever it is he is planning, she doubts she will like it. But to no one’s great surprise he ignores her warning and rises to his feet. He brushes imaginary crumbs off his pants (he is the neatest eater she has ever met; why he seems to think he has spilled everywhere is beyond her) before heading off in the direction of the four women. The urge to bury her face in her hands and groan wars with the need to watch how this plays out (it’s like a train wreck in progress and she cannot bring herself to look away), paralyzing her until all she can do is watch in numb horror. She stares as Dorian approaches the gold-clad woman (Kyra decides to call her Princess, at least until she learns the woman’s actual name; she then quickly dubs the others Redhead, Queen, and Soldier, for easier reference and her own amusement), dip into an elegant bow and press a kiss to the back of her hand. Princess’s teeth flash as she smiles at him, clearly delighted, and had she not been on the verge of panic Kyra would have scoffed. She gets the impression that Dorian occasionally forgets that it is not actually the nineteenth century and he is not in fact a Victorian gentleman. It’s ridiculous. But Princess seems to appreciate the attention.

The angry-looking brunette she has titled Soldier seems to share Kyra’s opinion, if the way she storms toward Dorian is any indication, but Princess brings her to a halt with a wave of the hand not currently in Dorian’s possession. To Kyra’s shock, Princess then steps forward and wraps Dorian in a brief but genuine hug. The uneasy feeling in Kyra’s stomach grows as it dawns on her that this is not the reaction of a someone accosted by an unknown man. Princess _knows_ Dorian. These are not some strangers in a bar - these are Dorian’s _friends_. Or one of them is, at least.

Kyra drops her head onto the table with a thunk. Surely it is not too much to ask for the ground to open up and swallow her whole. Right? She closes her eyes, folds her arms over her head, and pretends none of this is happening. If she can’t see it, it doesn’t exist. Maybe if she repeats that enough times she’ll come to believe it.

She is distracted from her fervent prayers for sudden-onset Armageddon - she is not usually religious but “desperate times call for desperate measures” has rarely felt more appropriate - by the sound of Dorian’s voice, far closer than she expects.

“It would seem that Lavellan has decided to practice her turtle impersonation. An excellent attempt, my dear.”

Kyra turns her head, intending to glare at him through the shield of her arms, only to squeak at the sight that greets her. Dorian stands at the end of their table, arm in arm with Princess while Redhead fixes him with a look that promises pain in his near future; Queen stands behind them with her nose wrinkled as though she smells something unpleasant; and Soldier hovers off to one side, arms crossed over her chest and frowning. Kyra sympathizes with her, though she is distracted by the way the woman’s biceps pull at the sleeves of her white dress shirt. She tries not to whimper or hide her head again.

“I hate you so much right now,” she whines instead. It isn’t until she hears Dorian laugh that she is even certain that the words were comprehensible through her arms. With a sigh she forces herself to sit up properly and acknowledge her friend’s entourage. Dredging up the closest thing she can manage to a smile given the circumstances, she tries to pretend that she knows how to interact with people.

“I’m sorry about him,” she says by way of greeting. She directs the words to Redhead, though they are meant for the group as a whole. “He’s not completely housebroken yet, but I’m working on it.” Princess muffles a giggle in her hand and Redhead looks slightly less inclined to rip Dorian’s head off and use it as a bird feeder. Kyra can’t say the same for herself.

“Yes, yes, you’re a regular comedian,” Dorian drawls. “May I have the pleasure of introducing the lovely Josephine Montilyet?” He gestures to the woman at his side and Kyra smirks. It is easier to deal with the situation if she keeps her focus on Dorian instead of the others, if she allows herself to pretend that this is just the two of them. If she pretends she is not surrounded by strangers then maybe the nausea building in her stomach will go away.

“You may.”

Her response earns her a sigh as Dorian pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers.

“Don’t be difficult,” he snaps but there is no heat in his voice. “I’ve invited Josephine and her friends to join us, as it is unlikely that there will be a free table anytime soon and we have more than enough space to spare.”

Kyra blinks and glances around. He is right, she realizes - there are no open tables, only a few scattered seats at the bar and the occasional empty chair at otherwise-occupied tables. Her shoulders slump and she makes a vague motion with her hand in the strangers’ general direction. Even she isn’t sure what she means by it, but Dorian takes it as agreement and ushers the others toward seats. He slides into the booth beside Kyra, placing himself as a buffer between her and the rest of the bar and even through her mild panic and the irritation that is not going to fade anytime soon she loves him just a little for that small act of thoughtfulness. He drapes an arm across her shoulders and she leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder for a brief moment in quiet reassurance. The one gesture tells him more than any number of her words - _it’s okay; I don’t mind; I forgive you for being a presumptive jackass_. Though at some point in the near future they are going to have to have a long talk about the difference between admiring someone’s appearance from a distance and having any actual desire to interact with them. She was perfectly happy sitting off to the side and watching them like a creepy stalker. There was no need for him to bring them over.

Josephine - and Kyra can’t help but think that the name suits her somehow - wastes no time in sitting beside Dorian, fussing with her ruffled skirt, but Soldier hesitates, one hand on the table.

“If you are uncomfortable with our presence,” she begins in an accent that Kyra cannot quite place but instantly likes. She looks about as uncomfortable as Kyra feels and she kind of wants to hug this stranger for even thinking to ask (that is, if there were a way to hug someone that involved no physical contact or social interaction whatsoever). The feeling makes it easier to hide the fact that her insides have twisted themselves into the fucking Gordian knot and she can’t quite breathe with so many people around. She pastes on another false smile and shakes her head.

“It’s fine,” she assures her, refusing to acknowledge the pleased smile Dorian sends her. He looks like a proud parent; Kyra has to suppress the urge to deck him.

Soldier nods, taking her words at face value, and slides into the booth until she sits opposite Kyra. Redhead follows with another glare at Dorian - Kyra wonders what he did to piss her off and prays that she can avoid doing the same. There is something quietly terrifying about the woman, though she can’t put her finger on what.

Rather than joining her companions in the booth that is just this side of too small to comfortably fit three adult humans (Kyra, Dorian, and Josephine sit pressed together from shoulders to knees and Kyra is by far the smallest of the group), Queen plucks an empty chair from a nearby table, ignoring the splutters of the table’s occupants, and sets it at the end of theirs. She folds herself into her commandeered seat with a sniff.

Kyra sighs, curling into Dorian’s side and casting her eyes around her new tablemates. She has a feeling that this is going to be a very long evening.


	3. Chapter 3

Between them, Dorian and Josephine manage introductions and Kyra takes advantage of the opportunity to examine their new companions. Their proximity allows her to notice more details than she could from halfway across the bar and it does not take more than a moment to realize that her first impression was even more accurate than she had thought. The four women are _distressingly_ gorgeous and Kyra has to squash a baffling combination of inadequacy and desire. _It doesn’t matter_ , she reminds herself for the latter; _I don’t care,_ for the former.

Josephine is lovely, classically beautiful with a strong nose, laughing brown eyes and a constant expression of gentle amusement. Her warm smile goes a long way toward smoothing the ragged edges of Kyra’s nerves. Queen is Vivienne de Fer, a name even Kyra recognizes as one of the city’s most ruthlessly efficient politicians, emerging from obscurity some ten years ago and clawing her way to one of the city’s highest offices through a combination of charm and viciousness. Kyra meets her eyes just once and feels the woman’s judgment as an almost palpable weight across her shoulders. Fighting back the urge to squirm in her seat, Kyra tries not to feel self-conscious about her jeans and oversized Skyhold University hoodie. Next to the ever-fashionable Madame de Fer, Kyra knows she must look a slob.

The redhead with sharp features and ice in her eyes is introduced as Leliana, no last name given. If Vivienne’s gaze makes Kyra feel like an uncouth mess, Leliana’s makes her feel like she has been flayed open, turned inside out and all her secrets exposed to prying eyes. This time she can’t repress her shivers.

The last member of their group is Cassandra Pentaghast. She is easier to read than her companions, her discomfort clear in the rigid set of her shoulders and the tightness in her strong jaw. She does not smile when they are introduced, just graces Kyra with a short nod and the full weight of her assessing stare. Unlike Leliana and Vivienne, Cassandra does not look at her the same way Kyra would stare down an experiment in the lab, picking it apart to see what makes it tick. There is still a measure of judgment there, yes, but there is something more straightforward about her. She is weighing, measuring, determining any threat that Kyra might present and preparing to react accordingly. Kyra tells herself that the flush staining her cheeks is discomfort or anxiety, nothing to do with the hazel eyes that are clearly taking her measure. She does not believe herself.

As introductions wind to a close Kyra breaks eye contact with Cassandra and leans forward enough that she can see Josephine on Dorian’s other side. She seems to be the least intimidating of the group, though considering the company she keeps Kyra has her doubts that Josephine is as harmless as she seems. If Kyra is going to be forced into socialization, she should probably start with someone who is not looking at her like she is dissecting her soul.

“So how do you and Dorian know each other?” she asks, opting for a (hopefully) neutral conversational gambit. It earns her a light laugh, a musical sound that draws a smile from Leliana. Kyra files that observation away for later consideration. She suspects she now understands the source of Leliana’s hostility toward Dorian, though, and she has to bite back a smirk of her own.

“Oh, we have known each other for ages, off and on. Our families moved in similar circles for many years.” She turns to Dorian, the corners of her mouth pulled into a tiny frown. “Though it has been some time since I have seen you at any of the events.” There is no mistaking the subtle disapproval in her voice.

Dorian responds with a weak chuckle and Kyra hides a wince. She does not hide it well enough - out of the corner of her eye she catches the furrow of Cassandra’s brow and the narrowing of Leliana’s eyes but to Kyra’s great relief neither comments on it. Dorian’s family, much like Kyra’s own, is one of their “off-limits” topics of conversation. (They actually sat down and wrote out a list of forbidden topics a few days into their friendship - Kyra has it hanging on her refrigerator in her apartment for the sake of posterity and of winning arguments. It includes such subjects as Kyra’s background in literature, Dorian’s sexuality, Kyra’s gloves, snow, anyone’s family, and sundry others.)

Whatever evasive response Dorian is undoubtedly preparing is cut short by the sudden presence of their waiter, come to take the drink orders of the new arrivals. The process of choosing their poisons is made more difficult when Vivienne and Dorian start into what promises to be a lengthy argument over the relative merits of different vintages of wine. Or something: Kyra has no idea what they’re talking about beyond the fact that they apparently both have _feelings_ about wine and that Vivienne’s _feelings_ are different from Dorian’s _feelings_ and something about tannin levels and… Yeah, she’s completely lost. From the way Leliana shakes her head at Vivienne, however, this is not unusual behavior.

With no need to order anything herself - though she is down to the dregs of her beer, she has no intention of ordering any more now that others have joined them - Kyra tunes out the rest of the conversation in favor of staring at her hands and trying to pretend that she is alone. She hears Cassandra’s order solely due to proximity (and the fact that she has to raise her voice to be heard over the ruckus Dorian and Vivienne are making) and she tilts her head to one side when she realizes that the other woman had ordered nothing stronger than Sprite. The waiter leaves to fill their order as Cassandra shrugs.

“Someone must drive them home when they have finished...celebrating.” Her voice twists the end of the sentence into something mystified. Kyra finds herself sympathizing - she cannot quite comprehend why people spend what free time they have in a dim bar surrounded by loud, irritating strangers while trying to imbibe enough of a mind-altering substance to inhibit their ability to think and call it fun.

She ignores the part of her mind that points out that she does exactly that every week with Dorian. That is entirely Dorian’s fault. Before meeting him she was quite content spending her Friday nights sitting at home watching Netflix.

“You can’t order a cab?” she asks instead of dwelling any longer on just how much Dorian has affected her life over the course of only a few weeks. She prefers to ignore that whenever possible.

“It would be an unnecessary expense.”

Kyra makes a noncommittal noise in response and glances over at the rest of the table. Leliana and Josephine have been drawn into the wine debate and now all four of them are comparing the pros and cons of their wines of choice. Kyra wrinkles her nose - even if she wanted to join the discussion (and she doesn’t - in her book trying to hold a conversation with more than one person at a time falls under the heading of "cruel and unusual punishment") she would have no idea where to begin. Her definition of a decent wine is one that she paid ten dollars for at the grocery store instead of five.

Instead she slumps in her seat and toys with her phone, idly twirling it around on the table. After a minute or so of her sitting there silently, she feels Dorian’s fingers tap at her shoulder, pulling her attention to him. She glances up - they are close enough that she has to lean her head back against the wall behind her in order to meet his eyes - and raises an eyebrow in question.

“All right?” he asks, too quiet for the others to hear, and warmth floods through Kyra’s veins at the concern in his voice. It has been almost a year since she has had someone who worried over her, someone who concerned themselves with her well-being. She smiles at him, and for the first time since Josephine and her friends joined them she does not have to force it.

“Yeah, I’m good,” she replies in the same soft tone. After watching her for a moment longer, weighing her honesty, he nods and allows himself to be drawn back into the discussion going on around him. Kyra catches something about the effects of soil composition on wine flavor and does not bother to hide her wince as she lets her attention lapse once more.

She has just started planning the most efficient means of getting the hell out of there (and the one least likely to earn her one of Dorian’s patented disappointed puppy looks) when their waiter returns bearing an overladen try filled with a baffling array of drinks, both alcoholic and non. For Vivienne, a red wine that will undoubtedly fall far short of her apparently-exacting standards; some sort of margarita in an eye watering shade of blue for Leliana; and something orange in a martini glass, the contents of which Kyra has absolutely no desire to know, for Dorian. When the waiter places a brandy in front of a beaming Josephine, Kyra blinks. She would not have predicted that one, would have expected something closer to what Leliana ordered, something bright and fruity and fun. Two Sprites end up in front of her and Cassandra and Kyra realizes that Dorian must have ordered for her when she was not paying attention. She leans against his shoulder in wordless thanks, both for thinking of her and for knowing that she would not want anything alcoholic. While he does not verbally acknowledge it, the corner of his moustache twitches as he smothers a smile.

As the waiter wanders off to attend to his other tables Kyra tips her head back against the booth and closes her eyes. She has every intention of staying like that until enough time has passed that she can make her escape without offending anyone (Dorian actually likes Josephine - Kyra does not want to give him a reason to regret befriending her by antagonizing one of his other friends) but the sound of Cassandra’s voice cuts through the white noise of their tablemates’ conversation. Fight. Whichever.

“I would like to apologize,” she says, voice stilted and formal. When Kyra tips her head to one side in a silent bid for clarification, she swears she sees the hint of a flush touch Cassandra’s cheekbones. But as that would be ridiculous, she writes it off as a trick of the poor lighting. “We have interrupted your date; I assure you that was not our intention.”

Kyra gapes at her, not quite sure what part of that statement to tackle first. She decides on the most obvious; she’ll work her way down the list from there.

“Oh, no. No no no no no. Not a date. Not even remotely a date. No. Ick.” Even the idea of it has her scrunching up her nose and sticking out her tongue as she scrambles to find the words to describe just how very wrong Cassandra is. Scrambling, in this case, as much physical as mental, hands waving in front of her face as though trying to brush away the suggestion. When Dorian turns to check on her, equal parts amused and concerned, Kyra realizes just how ridiculous she must look, flailing about like an idiot, and blush creeps up her cheeks. She shakes her head with a quiet grumble and motions - subtlely, this time - for him to go back to whatever he was doing. It earns her a sideways look, but also a nod. With a brief ruffle of her hair he leans toward Leliana and seamlessly reenters the discussion, refuting some point or another in the argument Kyra has long-since lost track of.

When she turns back to Cassandra, she is met with an arch look. Kyra snorts.

“Yeah, I know. But we’re _really_ not together: he is about as far from my type as it is possible to get and still be alive.” She hesitates to add anything else - while she is neither closeted nor ashamed and she has no qualms about using her sexuality to dissuade men from hitting on her, she has always been nervous announcing it to women. In her experience, straight women tend to freak out when she tells him she’s a lesbian, certain that she is trying to get into their pants or thinking about them naked. More than once she has lost friends she had thought would understand and it is not an experience she cares to repeat any more often than necessary. It’s not as though she will ever see Cassandra again after tonight, anyway. She decides that it is not worth the potential drama and keeps quiet.

“Then your ‘type’ is _not_ someone you trust and with whom you are comfortable, someone with whom you enjoy spending your free time?” Cassandra sounds skeptical and when she phrases it like that Kyra can sort of understand why. She isn’t _correct_ , but it’s a reasonable enough line of thought.

“Maybe I just don’t like them so skinny,” she says. Cassandra raises a single eyebrow.

“Is that so?” Her mouth twists into a frown as she speaks, as though she cannot quite believe the words that are coming out of her mouth.

Without any conscious direction from her brain, Kyra’s gaze drops from Cassandra’s face to the breadth of her shoulders, the shift of her biceps against the blue of her shirt as she rests her forearms on the table. She flushes and snaps her eyes back up, offering Cassandra a small but genuine smile.

“Something like that,” she drawls. “If they can’t bench press me, I’m not interested.” It is...mostly true, though she cannot say that there have not been exceptions.

That startles a laugh from Cassandra, short and sharp. The sound draws Leliana’s attention their way, her blue eyes wide as she takes in the sight of the two of them, but they ignore her.

“That does not seem like much of a challenge,” Cassandra points out. Kyra is torn between delight at her apparent willingness to play along and indignation at the implied slight to her stature - all five feet and a hundred pounds of it. She settles on a pout, slender arms crossed over her chest.

“You’re mean,” she accuses. Unconcerned, Cassandra shrugs.

“That is the general concensus,” she agrees with no hint of bitterness and Kyra immediately regrets her words, joking though they were. She drops out of her offended stance to lean forward, unconsciously mirroring Cassandra’s posture with her forearms flat on the table and her hands folded.

“People are idiots. And also wrong, at least in this case.”

Cassandra responds with a noise that is half a laugh and half a scoff. “And you know this after speaking to me for half an hour?”

“I knew that after speaking to you for half a minute.” At Cassandra’s doubtful look, Kyra shrugs. “The first thing you did was make sure I was okay with you guys sitting here. And I got the impression that if I had said no you would have physically dragged your friends out of here, seating shortage be damned, rather than impose. The next thing you did was apologize for interrupting. That’s not exactly the behavior of an asshole.”

This time she knows she is not imagining the blush staining Cassandra’s cheeks. It is stupidly endearing and Kyra ducks her head to hide her smile and keep herself from saying something embarrassing.

The conversation flows easier after that, as though they have breached some invisible barrier. Though it still stalls and stutters on occasion, Kyra suspects that Cassandra is as aware as she is that their only other options are sitting around in awkward silence and joining in the rapidly-escalating argument taking place at the other end of the table. Kyra can’t speak for Cassandra, but for her part even the idea of the second option is enough to make her palms sweat.

The conversation meanders through the traditional getting-to-know-you small talk - where are you from, what do you do, do you have any kids, _et cetera et cetera ad infinitum_. It is the kind of discussion that typically bores Kyra to tears (one of the things that endeared Dorian to her in the first place was the fact that he skipped right over all of that nonsense in favor of introduction via literary criticism) but she finds herself fascinated by stilted retellings of stories from the precinct where Cassandra works internal affairs. She ignores the part of her brain that has started blaring alarm bells and screaming that her aesthetic appreciation is rapidly evolving into a full-blown crush. She has neither the time nor the inclination to crush on anyone right now, let alone some stranger in a bar, therefore it cannot be happening. QED.

More than once during their conversation Dorian glances over at her with a calculating stare and Leliana cannot seem to stop frowning at them, but Kyra remains oblivious to the strange looks and the passing minutes. Instead she keeps time by refills of Sprite and the steepening slope of Cassandra’s shoulders as she relaxes enough to lose her rigid posture.

Eventually she is reminded of the downside to an attentive waiter who keeps her glass full and she finds herself stuck in the corner of a booth with a full bladder but no desire to break off her conversation. Stubbornness can only get her so far, however, and before too much longer she is forced to bow to the demands of nature, making her excuses to Cassandra before jabbing a finger into Dorian’s side to get him to let her out. It is something of an endeavor to get both Dorian and Josephine out of the way enough for her to clamber out of the booth but after a few awkward moments and some shuffling of seats they figure it out. Kyra winces when she gets to her feet, several hours spent sitting in one place taking their toll on the muscles of her legs. As she trots off in the direction of the restrooms she hears Dorian’s shouted accusation that she is running away and she turns back around just long enough to flip him off.

 

As she walks past the bar a few minutes later on her way back to the table, she is pulled to a halt by a large hand wrapping around her right wrist. An instinctive panic claws through her mind at the touch but she sets it aside in favor of examining the hand’s owner. She cannot afford to freak out, not here, not now, not when for all she knows it is just someone looking for a lighter.

The optimistic thought does not last past her first sight of the man who has taken hold of her wrist. Over six feet tall and stocky, he reeks of alcohol and eyes her with a sleazy grin while two of his friends look on from their seats at the bar beside him. His gaze lingers, not on her breasts or her hips, but on the lines of her vallaslin and the tips of her ears and there is a gleam in his eyes that promises violence. A shiver of fear slithers down Kyra’s spine.

“Let go of me,” she demands and offers up a thankful prayer when it comes out more angry than frightened. The last thing she wants to do is give this asshole any reason to think she is afraid of him.

No matter how true it might be.

“Aww, don’t be like that, sweetheart,” the man says as his friends snigger behind him. “Come on and sit down, let me buy you a drink.” The leer that follows triggers every one of Kyra’s fight or flight instincts. She is outsized and outnumbered, with her only friend on the opposite side of the room - there is only one option that has even a chance of ending well for her.

“I’m not interested. And I told you to _let go_.” She punctuates her words with another twist of her wrist but her captor holds tight. Panic bubbles in her belly: how is she supposed to run if she cannot break his grip?

Her mind whirls through possible escape routes, calculating how loud she would have to yell to catch Dorian’s attention, which of the nearest patrons might step in to protect an elf and which would only egg the man on. None of the scenarios her brain throws at her are in any way comforting.

Rational thought flees a moment later as a hand lands on her shoulder from behind, long fingers pressing into her collarbone. All her plans vanish into smoke and a wave of pure, unadulterated terror threatens to send her to her knees.

_They are behind her. They are behind her and she can’t see them and she is surrounded and_

“What is going on here?”

Terror fades as quickly as it had come. She knows that voice. She turns her head just enough to see Cassandra standing behind her, the hand on her shoulder meant not as a threat but reassurance. Her expression is cold and her other hand rests at her hip, right where a holster would sit were she wearing one. If the smile Kyra gives at the sight is tinted with giddy relief, she doubts Cassandra will hold it against her.

Judging by the glare he shoots Cassandra, the man holding her wrist is less pleased by the interruption.

“We’re just having a friendly conversation,” he says, though the threat in his voice gives lie to the statement. “It’s none of your concern.”

“I am making it my concern.” All the awkwardness and hesitation Cassandra had displayed during their earlier conversation have vanished, replaced with steel. Despite the severity of the situation - and she needs no reminder of the danger she is still in - Kyra feels a thread of arousal curl in her stomach, nestled amongst the fear and panic. Determination, it would seem, is a good look for Cassandra. “Release her.”

The man sneers but he does as he is told, his friends falling silent behind him. As soon as she is free Kyra yanks her arm in toward her chest and stumbles back in an attempt to get out of reach. When her back bumps against Cassandra, the hand on her shoulder tightens. Her harasser crosses his arms over his chest as he attempts to stare Cassandra down, the motion drawing attention to the definition of his arms and shoulders in a way that can only be intentional, a metaphoric baring of teeth. Though Kyra would not be surprised if he were to attempt that next. With Cassandra’s hand on her shoulder and her warmth at her back, she is not intimidated by his posturing and if the disgusted noise from behind her is any indication, neither is Cassandra.

Cassandra uses the hand on Kyra’s shoulder to guide her to the side, shifting to place herself between Kyra and the three men.

“Cabot!” she barks, voice carrying across the crowded bar. From the opposite end the dwarven bartender’s head snaps around in search of the source of the call; when he sees Cassandra he drops the rag he is using to wipe down the counter and hurries over to them.

“What can I do for you?” he asks as he nears, dark eyes flicking between them each in turn. Cassandra gestures toward the three at the bar.

“I suggest you have your bouncers remove these men from the premises.” The threat “or I will” is clear in the bite of Cassandra’s voice and all three men begin to protest, puffing themselves up in rage. Cassandra and Cabot both make a show of ignoring them, though Kyra doubts the inattention is genuine, not when the men remain a threat.

Cabot nods to Cassandra. “I’ll see to it, Detective.”

Cassandra returns his nod and steers Kyra away, out of sight of the bar. Once they have several people and two tables between them and the men’s line of sight, Cassandra turns to look at her. Kyra can see the concern in the furrow of Cassandra’s brow, the downward curve of her mouth.

“Are you all right?” she asks and Kyra appreciates the fact that she does not soften her tone or do anything to treat Kyra as a victim. She is seeking a status report, not an emotional response, and that allows Kyra to avoid thinking too much about what just happened. Her mouth quirks into a smile.

“I’m fine,” she replies in the same manner. “The others are probably looking for us, though.”

Cassandra glances over in the direction of their companions. “They saw me come over here, though I suspect Dorian would rather have come himself.”

Kyra tries not to read too much into the fact that Cassandra was apparently the first to realize she was in trouble, the first to come to her defense. That way lay madness.

“Somehow I doubt that would have gone as smoothly.” It is beyond an understatement: Dorian, with his smart mouth and inability to keep said mouth shut, would have sparked off a bar brawl without effort. As they near their table Kyra lays a hand on Cassandra’s arm to pause their progress.

“Hey, Cassandra?” she says, looking anywhere but at her face. “Thanks.” She does not wait for a response, just continues on her way to the table, letting Cassandra follow in her wake.


	4. Chapter 4

When her alarm clock goes off at eight o’clock the next morning, the first thing Kyra does is throw it against the wall. The second thing she does is let out a string of swears as apparently a head-on collision with drywall is not enough to silence the damned thing. She gropes around on her bedside table for her phone, unwilling to expend the energy necessary to open her eyes no matter how much easier it would make her task.

The moment her fingers wrap around the smooth surface of her phone she calls Dorian, eyes still closed. It is not a difficult task - she has all of five numbers saved in her phone and Dorian’s is constantly at the top of both her recent calls and her contacts list.

Much to her surprise, he picks up the phone on the second ring. She had been planning on leaving a voicemail but much prefers this; there is something unsatisfying about swearing at a machine. She starts speaking as soon as she hears the click of the call connecting, not bothering to wait to hear his undoubtedly irritated greeting.

“I hate you, you rat-faced _bastard_ ,” she snarls, voice hoarse with an unpleasant combination of grogginess and sleep deprivation. “I have less than an hour before I have to go cram physics knowledge into the thick skulls of a pair of misbegotten Neanderthals and I have to do it on almost no sleep, which is entirely your fault and I swear to all that is holy that I am going to break into your house and cut holes in all of your fucking designer shirts and -”

“Who is this?”

Kyra’s exhaustion evaporates, replaced with the burn of humiliation. Even half-asleep she recognizes that voice and it is _not_ the one she expected to hear.

“Shit. This isn’t Dorian, is it?”

“...Is this Kyra Lavellan? Where did you get this number?”

“I don’t fucking know.” Kyra shoves herself into a sitting position and scrubs at her eyes with the hand not holding her phone. Just the thought of the conversation she is about to have is enough to make her head ache. “I am _so_ sorry, Cassandra. I thought I was calling Dorian and I have no idea how your number ended up in my phone because I swear I’d remember if I did it and can we _please_ pretend I didn’t just threaten a cop and -”

Cassandra’s voice cuts her off before she can babble her foot even farther into her mouth. “ _Lavellan_.”

“Kyra,” she corrects before she can stop herself. “The only one who calls me Lavellan is Dorian and that’s just because I haven’t figured out how to get him to stop.”

A deep sigh echoes across the line. “Kyra, then. Stop panicking and breathe.”

Kyra follows her instructions, biting her lip to still her tongue and inhaling through her nose. She focuses on the way the air fills her lungs and expands her chest and not on the hummingbird pulse fluttering in her neck. Several deep breaths, a steady in-hold-out-hold pattern, and she can shut the panic away in the recesses of her mind, at least well enough to be able to hold a coherent conversation.

“Right,” she says after a long moment of silence. “Sorry.”

“Do not apologize. Are you rational enough to be able to answer a question now?”

Kyra laughs, a weak and thready thing. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she leans over and rests her elbows on her knees, the tangled nest of her hair forming a curtain around her face to block out the morning sunlight streaming in through her window. “If I weren’t, that would have been a really poor way to phrase that.”

“Ugh. You’re fine.” And Kyra is probably imagining the fondness in Cassandra’s tone but she is going to pretend that it’s real. It makes her feel better about the utter joke her life has become. “You truly do not know where you got my number?”

“I don’t - wait.” A flicker of understanding hits Kyra and she groans. “That fucking bastard. I am going to _eviscerate_ him. And pretend you didn’t hear that, will you?”

“Dorian again?” Cassandra asks and this time Kyra knows she is not imagining the curl of amusement there. She huffs.

“I do have other friends, you know.” Cassandra does her the favor of not laughing at that statement and Kyra snorts, falling backwards onto her bed in a dramatic motion that is wasted on the empty room. A lone curl of hair falls into her mouth and she has to spit it out before she can say anything else. “Okay, so that’s a lie. Yes, I meant Dorian. I left my phone on the table last night; he could easily have stolen it for a few minutes without me noticing. Though I can’t imagine how _he_ would have gotten your number.”

Another sigh, irritated this time. “Leliana.”

“What?”

“ _Leliana_ ,” Cassandra repeats, voice tight. Kyra imagines her scowling at the wall as though it was somehow responsible for their situation. The mental image forces her to smother a laugh. “She was giving me these... _looks_ all evening. I am certain she had something to do with it.”

Kyra remembers the sharp eyes and calculating stare of the redhead in question. All things considered, Cassandra’s accusation does not seem that far-fetched.

“Why would she do that? She doesn’t know me.” Holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder, Kyra toys with a strand of her hair, finger-combing out the knots as they talk.

“Because she believes I need to ‘get out more’,” Cassandra grumbles, her voice mimicking Leliana’s gentle lilt. It is an unexpectedly good impersonation. “And she would absolutely use the fact that our conversation lasted longer than thirty seconds and did not end in shouting as an excuse to meddle in my social life.”

And doesn’t that sound familiar. Kyra has been getting the same from Dorian for pretty much the entirety of their friendship.

“So what I’m getting out of this is that we both have manipulative assholes for friends.”

Cassandra huffs out a soft, amused noise in response and Kyra cannot help the smile that flits across her face at the sound. “So it would seem.”

“Well, don’t worry about it.” The words that are about to come out of Kyra’s mouth threaten to choke her, but they have to be said. “I’ll go ahead and delete your number once I hang up: you won’t have to deal with my early-morning wake up calls again.”

“I was already awake.”

“You -” A wry laugh escapes Kyra before she can stop it. “Of course you were. I don’t know why I’m at all surprised, really. In that case, you won’t have to deal with my early-morning non-wake-up calls again.”

She expects some form of acknowledgment from Cassandra, perhaps a “thank you” or a “you had better.” Instead her offer is met with a long silence.

“That is...not necessary.” When Cassandra finally does speak, the words are hesitant and Kyra is certain she has misheard. Cassandra misinterprets her stunned silence: she hurries to clarify with, “unless you wish to, of course, which is entirely reasonable and likely the intelligent thing to do. I simply meant -”

“Cassandra,” Kyra interrupts, her sing-song tone a desperate attempt to conceal the delight that washes through her as she begins to understand. “Is this your way of saying you want to be friends?” Though the phrasing may be obnoxious, the question is sincere. Kyra needs to know where they stand. She cannot afford to misread things now.

“What? No! I mean, yes. That is, if you are not -”

No amount of willpower could keep Kyra from grinning like a loon at the words. “Cassandra.” She knows her happiness is obvious in her voice, but she cannot bring herself to mind enough to go through the effort required to disguise it. “Stop panicking and breathe.” When Cassandra grumbles as her own words are parroted back to her, Kyra just laughs. “I’ll keep it. But just for the record, if you start getting weird-ass text messages at random hours, you totally brought it on yourself.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Cassandra replies, voice threaded with relief. There is a pause as they both process the conversation, Kyra biting her lower lip to hold in her giddy laughter. She isn’t sure where it is coming from, this sudden willingness to talk to people and keep them close and not push them as far away as physically possible. It’s Dorian’s fault, she decides: most things are these days. And those that aren’t she blames him for anyway. But in this case it is likely true - she did not realize how lonely she was, how much energy she spent isolating herself and keeping people at arm’s length until he came around and turned everything upside down. She doesn’t know whether she wants to thank him or stab him for it.

The ridiculous urge to bury her face in her pillow to smother her grin crashes and burns when Cassandra speaks again. “About last night…”

“I’m not going to like where this is going, am I?” Kyra asks, keeping her tone light to make sure Cassandra realizes she is teasing. Mostly. Once she gets over her knee-jerk assumption that she had fucked up somehow and Cassandra is about to tell her that this entire conversation has been a joke and _isn’t it hilarious you believed someone might actually like you ha ha good joke now leave me alone before I arrest your ass_.

Yes, it is ridiculous. Yes, it goes counter to everything she knows about Cassandra. No, that doesn’t stop her from fearing it. She has never claimed to be well-adjusted.

Oblivious to Kyra’s minor anxiety attack, Cassandra continues speaking. “I teach a self-defense class at the university on Saturday nights. It is free for students - you should come.”

In her defense, Kyra does consider it. For exactly as long as it takes her to realize that going to the class would involve an hour of close proximity to a sweaty Cassandra teaching her how to beat people up. She is self-aware enough to realize what an utterly, horribly, _unfathomably_ bad idea it would be and resolves to opt out of the offer as politely as she can manage.

“Yeah, all right.”

 _Wait, what_? No. That was not the plan. That is the exact opposite of the plan. What happened to the plan? But she cannot bring herself to rescind her agreement, not when she can hear the satisfaction in Cassandra’s voice as she relays the time and place.

“Shouldn’t you be preparing to meet with your ‘misbegotten Neanderthals’?” Cassandra asks after extracting a promise from Kyra to show up or suffer the (undoubtedly terrible) consequences. Kyra’s eyes fly wide and she launches off the bed to race for her clock, still beeping forlornly on the floor across the room.

The digital red 8:21 blinks up at her and Kyra swears that it’s mocking her. She lets out a string of increasingly vulgar curses, Cassandra’s muffled laughter curling along the line and soothing the rough edges of Kyra’s irritation with her current situation.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Kyra mutters, flitting around the room to gather enough relatively clean clothing from the piles scattered across her bedroom floor to constitute a full outfit. If she hurries she still has time for a quick shower. “I _really_ have to go. I’m tutoring two undergrads and if I’m not there when they arrive they’ll run off and I’ll be out fifty bucks. I’ll see you tonight?” If she smiles a little too wide at those words, well, there is no one there to see it.

“Seven o’clock.” As though Kyra might have forgotten in the last two minutes.

“I’ll be there.”

They say their farewells and Kyra scrambles to get ready, looking forward to her day far more than she had been when she woke up. She hums quietly to herself as she steps into the shower, snatches of a song she can’t quite remember.


	5. Chapter 5

Kyra enters the yoga studio that Cassandra has commandeered for her self-defense class at a quarter to seven, her winter coat slung over her shoulder and a change of clothes tucked into a bag at her side, and immediately realizes that every one of her concerns about this being a terrible idea were one hundred percent accurate. Even beyond enabling her pointless crush on a straight woman - a woman Kyra thinks she might actually enjoy being friends with, assuming she can get a grip on her stupid hormones - it would appear that Cassandra has made it her mission to melt every single brain cell Kyra has ever possessed.

She is standing at the front of the room when Kyra enters, the dress shirt and slacks from the night before replaced with track pants and a fitted black tank that exposes every one of the muscles in her arms. At the sight, Kyra’s mouth goes dry and all rational thought flees her brain for regions unknown. Never again will she doubt the depths of her appreciation for well-muscled arms.

She stands at the door in stunned silence long enough for Cassandra to turn and notice her, a relieved smile cutting across stern features as she walks over.

“Kyra. You made it.”

“Said I would, didn’t I?” Kyra chokes out, mentally flailing her way back to some sort of equilibrium state. She isn’t certain what the procedure is for reuniting with someone you have only ever met once. Should she go for a handshake? An awkward head nod? She and Dorian sort of skipped that part of things and jumped straight into bear hugs and a complete disregard for personal space, and other than that she hasn’t tried to befriend anyone in close to a decade. Her social skills are a little rusty. (If she’s being honest, her social skills never existed in the first place.) She settles on a smile she prays is friendly rather than filthy. When Cassandra does not immediately yell at her, she assumes that she succeeded in that much, at least.

“I wasn’t sure what dress code was for something like this,” she admits, gesturing down at herself. “Hope I didn’t screw it up too much.” In place of her hoodie and jeans from the night before she wears a green t-shirt and black yoga pants, two of the only articles of clothing she owns that aren’t two sizes too big, and her leather glove has been replaced with thin black cotton. She has pulled her hair back into a thick braid to keep it out of her eyes but every time she moves her head she worries that the riotous curls will make a break for freedom and start flying everywhere. It would not be the first time it has happened. Cassandra takes all of a second to consider her before replying.

“You’ll do.”

A booming voice from behind Kyra interrupts anything else Cassandra might have said.

“Who’s doing what, and why wasn’t I invited?”

Kyra turns toward the source of the voice and squeaks: there is no other, more dignified word to describe the noise that comes out of her mouth at the sight before her.

The speaker is a qunari, which in itself is unusual enough, but even for a qunari he is giant: at least seven feet tall with an additional foot of horn and shoulders as broad as Kyra is tall. His torso boasts more muscles than an entire team of professional wrestlers, muscles not even a hefty layer of belly fluff can hide, which Kyra only knows because he is shirtless, wearing nothing but pants made out of what appears to be an entire circus tent. A patch covers one eye, a brace wraps around one ankle, and vitaar tattoos cover the spread of his shoulders. He is, in a word, terrifying.

Until his mouth splits into a grin at the sight of her, facial scars stretched tight, and suddenly all she can think of is the Great Dane her neighbors have, a massive overgrown puppy of a dog who could tear you in half with a thought but all he ever wants is a belly rub.

The mental image allows her to relax as he nears rather than fleeing in terror. Besides, Cassandra still stands calmly at her side and though she has not known her long, Kyra cannot imagine her remaining idle in the face of a potential threat.

“You must be Cass’s newest recruit, right?” the qunari asks, extending a hand the size of Kyra’s face. “She said you might be showing up.”

Cassandra sighs as Kyra accepts the proffered hand, his grip gentle despite the strength she can feel lurking beneath the skin. “Kyra, meet the Iron Bull. He is my co-instructor for the class. Bull, Kyra Lavellan.”

“Pleasure,” Kyra murmurs, extracting her hand and taking a step back. Just because she is not afraid of him (and she is going to keep telling herself that until she manages to convince herself) does not mean that she is comfortable having him in her personal space. Or having anyone in her personal space, really. She ignores the fact that her movement brings her close enough to Cassandra that their shoulders brush. She likes her personal space. Honest.

The Iron Bull’s grin twists into a smirk and he winks his lone eye at her. “Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet, kid.”

“ _Bull_ ,” Cassandra snaps, drawing a deep chuckle from the qunari in question.

“Yeah, yeah.” He turns his attention from Kyra to Cassandra, much to the former’s relief. There is only so much she can be expected to deal with at any one time and giant horned men flirting with her is leagues beyond her tolerances. “We good to go?”

Cassandra nods and the Iron Bull rubs his hands together. “ _Ex_ cellent. You two play nice; I’m gonna go prep.”

He wanders off without waiting for a reply. As soon as he is out of immediate earshot, Kyra turns wide eyes on Cassandra.

“He seems...boisterous,” she mutters, keeping her voice quiet enough that it will not carry across the room to the Iron Bull. Cassandra laughs, hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. Kyra wishes she wouldn’t - she likes the way Cassandra laughs, like it has been startled out of her. It is refreshingly real.

“You have no idea. When he was first assigned to work with me I though the administration had made a terrible mistake.” She shakes her head, fond smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “But he is surprisingly competent and knows how to be serious when the situation requires.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

It is close enough to the start of class that people have begun to arrive, wandering in in groups of one or two until about a dozen people have gathered in the studio. For the most part they are quiet, holding low conversations with one another as they wait for the clock to tick over to seven.

Most of them, at least. At five to seven a raucous shout from the doorway snaps Kyra’s attention away from her conversation with Cassandra, eyes wide in horror as she spins on her heel to face the speaker. A blonde elf in a ratty red crop-top sprints across the room to launch herself at Iron Bull, leaping high enough to wrap her hands around one of his horns and hang there, cackling. In the doorway her dwarven girlfriend watches with a wide grin on her soft face and Kyra resists the urge to bury her head in her hands and groan.

“You didn’t warn me Sera and Dagna would be here,” she mutters, drawing a frown from Cassandra.

“You know them?”

“They’re in the lab I oversee.” She does not elaborate but if Cassandra’s quiet noise of understanding is anything to go by she does not have to. It is something of a relief to know that she is not the only one they terrorize. “Yeah. The first day they were supposed to balance forces by hanging weights from strings; they turned them into nunchucks instead. It’s only gotten worse from there.”

The corners of Cassandra’s mouth twitch as she fights a smile. “Bolos,” she corrects. When Kyra just blinks at her, she clarifies. “Weapons made by attaching weights to strings are bolos, not nunchucks.”

Kyra groans and presses the heels of her palms to her eyes. The sound draws Sera’s attention from her seat atop the bar of the Iron Bull’s horns, legs hooked around the back of his neck.

“Teach!” she calls as soon as she catches sight of Kyra, her voice carrying over the quiet conversations of the others in the room. “Widdle, Teach is here!”

From her position by the door, Dagna turns her head in the direction indicated by Sera’s flailing arms, the motion copied by nearly every other person in the room. Finding herself the sudden center of attention, Kyra feels her face flame and calculates the probability of the ground swallowing her whole. The answer is not nearly likely enough.

“Kill me now. Please,” she mutters under her breath, drawing a snort of amusement from Cassandra. Kyra turns pleading eyes on her, a silent cry for help, but Cassandra just shakes her head, eyes dancing in poorly-veiled amusement. Across the room Sera kicks at Iron Bull’s shoulder to get him to move, using his horns to steer him in Kyra’s direction and whooping in glee. A quick glance is enough for Kyra to know that the Iron Bull is all for Sera’s unique brand of mischief - a shit-eating grin splits his face and his one eye shines as he allows all three hundred pounds of himself to be guided by the tiny elf on his head. No one in the room seems at all phased by their actions and Kyra is a little concerned that this is apparently normal behavior for them.

She avoids the onrushing qunari by stepping to the left, placing Cassandra between her and the Iron Bull. Her actions earn her another frown but since she is also exponentially less likely to get squashed it is a trade-off she is willing to accept.

Cassandra heaves a sigh before stepping in to seize control of the rapidly-devolving situation. “Bull! It’s seven o’clock. We should begin.”

Iron Bull’s reply is drowned out by Sera’s loud “ _piss_!” as he plucks her off his horns, lifting her as easily as he might a pillow.

 _"Thank you_ ,” Kyra whispers, quiet but fervent, as Cassandra moves to take her place at the front of the room. Iron Bull joins her while the students - including Kyra, Sera, and Dagna - spread out across the room, space enough between them that they won’t get in one another’s way.

Cassandra begins the class and it does not take long for Kyra to understand what she meant when she referred to the Iron Bull as “surprisingly competent.” As an instructor, Cassandra is exactly as Kyra would have expected - effective but brusque, issuing instructions and advice in the tone of one accustomed to being obeyed. The Iron Bull, for all his size, is the opposite. He is gentle and patient, answering questions, offering encouragement, and correcting forms with seemingly limitless patience. The two of them make an effective pair and Kyra finds herself enjoying the class far more than she had anticipated. Even Sera’s inexplicable determination to partner with her throughout the class (Cassandra, in an admirable display of good sense, separated Sera and Dagna as soon as the class started) did not dent her enthusiasm. Though she does spend the entire thing waiting for some sort of prank to go off. It is the first interaction the two of them have had in which Kyra was not in a position of power over Sera, and Kyra is startled to realize that when Sera is not doing everything in her power to undermine her authority she is actually good company. She isn’t quite sure what to do with this information.

The hour-long class passes in what Kyra would swear is far less time and by the end she is drenched in sweat, light-headed from exhaustion, and flushed an unattractive shade of magenta, but she feels  _good_. And not just from her proximity to Cassandra and her distractingly bare arms, though that doesn’t hurt.

Maybe those therapists had been onto something, she thinks as she dries her face with a towel, what with all their harping on about “getting out” and “meeting people” and “not shutting herself in her apartment and starting her reign as the local hermit.” She had ignored them at the time, so wrapped up in her misery and grief that even getting out of bed in the morning often seemed an insurmountable task, but now… well, it has been nearly a year. And the grief isn’t gone, will never be gone, but it is dulled, the ache of a missing limb instead of the shock of a knife to the gut. Maybe she actually can do this, can let people in and start acting like a person instead of a walking ball of anguish, can let herself relax.

Or maybe she’s just fooling herself and this whole “having friends” thing is going to blow up in her face and leave her even worse off than before. Either way, she won’t be bored.

A huge hand claps her on the back hard enough to make her stumble, dragging her from her ruminations.

“You did good, kid,” the Iron Bull booms from too close behind her as she scrambles to keep her feet. “Especially for someone who’s never been to the gym a day in her life.”

Kyra wrinkles her nose and turns to face him, taking a few backward steps out of arm’s reach. “Is it that obvious?” she asks.

Iron Bull barks out a laugh. “Only if you know what to look for. Which I do. Mind if I ask what happened?”

“What do you mean?” Kyra asks as Cassandra walks over to join them. A quick glance around the room shows that other than the three of them, only Sera and Dagna are left in the studio, loitering by the door with their heads bent together and grinning like loons. An ominous sense of dread fills Kyra at the sight and she hurriedly tears her eyes away. She does _not_ want to know what they are plotting. Outside the lab, they are not her responsibility. Someone else can deal with the inevitable fallout.

“I mean that usually there’s a reason people show up at a self-defense class out of the blue,” Iron Bull says in answer to her question, “something that happened to them that they’re trying to figure out how to deal with. And from the looks of things, I’d say you’re no exception. Just wondered if you wanted to talk about it.”

 _No. No, no,_ hell _no_. She knows what it is he sees in her, what he mistakes as her motivations for showing up today. She also knows that there is no power on this earth that will convince her to confide in a complete stranger, no matter how well-meaning. Nor does she have any intention of sharing her _actual_ motivation to attend, as she doubts blurting out “I seem to have developed a massive crush on your co-instructor and am apparently unable to say no to her” would go over all that well.

At least some of her thought process must show on her face, because Cassandra comes to her rescue. Again. This is starting to become a habit, though one Kyra cannot say she minds overmuch.

“Leave her be, Bull,” she snaps. “She is here because I invited her.”

“Yeah, because _that_ isn’t weird or anything,” Iron Bull mutters under his breath, but when Cassandra glares at him he just gives her the closest thing to an innocent look a scarred, be-horned mountain of muscle can manage. She stares him down, mouth set in stern disapproval, until he grunts. “Oh, fine. I’ll leave her alone.”

As Kyra lets out a sigh of relief, a little more in awe of Cassandra than she had been five minutes ago, Iron Bull ruins any goodwill his acquiescence might have earned him.

“So you guys joining us tonight or what?” He looks to Kyra for an answer but she has no idea what he is talking about. She just lifts her hands in the universal gesture for “I have no idea what the fuck is going on” as Cassandra raises her fingers to massage her temple.

“Bull…”

“Aw, come on, it’ll be fun!” He turns back to Kyra to explain. “Sera, Dagna and I meet up with my boys after class: it’s team tradition to host parties Saturday nights. You should come with us; it’ll be awesome. There’ll be beer, Krem’ll probably try to arm wrestle you - don’t let him, he kicks everyone’s ass - and someone’ll probably get into a fight by the end of the night. Or naked. Or both - that one's _always_ fun.” He trails off, lost to memories even the mention of which kind of make Kyra want to vomit with anxiety. She cannot think of a less appealing way to spend her evening than what the Iron Bull has just described. Horrified, she looks over at Cassandra.

“And you join them?”

If the expression of utter disgust on Cassandra’s face is anything to go by, Kyra might as well have suggested that she eats puppies for breakfast every morning while bathing in the blood of virgins. “I do _not_.”

Iron Bull laughs. “Yeah, Cass always skips out on us. I’m kinda hoping that if you agree, she’ll come with, if only to make sure we don’t scar you too bad.”

Cassandra’s brow furrows at the words but she does not deny them. “I would like to believe that Kyra has more sense than to agree to attend one of the disasters-in-waiting that you call parties,” she snaps, eyes flicking to Kyra as though seeking confirmation. Kyra shoots her a wry grin.

“Sorry, Iron Bull. While I appreciate the invite I would honestly rather gouge my own eyes out with a fork.” It is only when Cassandra chokes on a startled laugh that Kyra realizes what she has just said, a realization immediately followed by the one telling her that the Iron Bull might take offense and that she _really_ doesn’t want the giant qunari angry at her. Thankfully, he does not seem perturbed. He just grins at her, eye crinkling at the corner.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” he warns but much to her relief he does not press the issue. Instead he bids them both hearty farewells and joins Sera and Dagna at the door, ruffling Sera’s hair and dodging the swing she throws at him in response. Within moments Cassandra and Kyra are alone in the studio once more.

“He was right: you kept up well today,” Cassandra says into the quiet Iron Bull’s departure leaves behind. Kyra chokes out a laugh and tries very hard not to think about Cassandra watching her make a fool of herself as she tries to make her body move the way she wanted it to. She does not need that embarrassment on top of everything else. She hikes her bag up onto her shoulder, using the action to distract herself from the thought.

“You’re a good teacher,” she replies. “You and the Iron Bull both.” She scrubs the back of her right hand along her hairline, making a face at the sweat that sticks to her skin. “Ew. I need a shower.”

“That’s a good thing,” Cassandra tells her, and there is a hint of approval in the curve of her smile. “It means you were making an effort.”

Kyra is thankful that the flush of exercise has not faded enough to show her inevitable blush at the praise. “Either that or I’m just really out of shape.”

Cassandra inclines her head, acknowledging the point before leading the way out of the studio. Kyra knows there are locker rooms somewhere in the maze that is the Skyhold University Fitness and Recreation Center and that said locker rooms have showers, but she has no idea where to find them. Her eyes scan the walls as they walk in search of any helpful signs or directions. Creators, at this point she would take little arrows drawn on the ground guiding her on.

“Do you have plans after this?” Cassandra asks as they make their way through the halls. It is an idle question, not a leading one, curiosity rather than invitation.

“It’s only eight, right? The Fade’s still open for a few hours, so I might head over there for a while and try to get some work done.” Ladies and gentlemen, her exciting Saturday night plans. Kyra gives a self-deprecating little laugh as she is forced to acknowledge, at least to herself, how boring her life must look from the outside.

From the inside, too, come to think of it.

Cassandra frowns at her, eyes narrowed. “The Fade.” It is not so much a question as it is a demand for clarification and Kyra bites her lip to still her smile. Then what Cassandra said catches up to her and the smile falls into consideration.

“You’ve never been to the Fade?” she asks, the first inklings of a really terrible idea flitting through her mind. When Cassandra shakes her head, Kyra nods, sharp and decisive. She ignores the part of her that is yelling at her to keep her damn mouth shut. “Right. Two questions. One: you have any plans right now?” Another head shake and Kyra continues. “Two: on a scale of one to ten, how sick of my company are you?”

“I am not,” Cassandra replies, though there is a glint in her eyes that warns Kyra to choose her next words with care, lest that change. Kyra grins, a bright flash of teeth.

“Excellent.” She rubs her hands together in the manner of good supervillains everywhere. “Give me ten minutes to get cleaned up and then meet me by the front door. I’m gonna introduce you to one of the best kept secrets of Skyhold University.”

Cassandra, she notes as she veers off toward a sign for the women’s locker room, does not appear comforted by her statement. She doesn’t appear to be leaving either, though, so Kyra is willing to consider it a victory. And if there is an excited bounce to her step as she darts off in search of her much-needed shower, there is no one there to call her on it.


	6. Chapter 6

The Fade is a coffee shop located inside a tiny brick building a block from campus, squeezed between a twenty-four hour chinese restaurant on one side and a liquor store on the other. It is close enough to the university rec center that Kyra and Cassandra walk there despite the bite to the cold February air, a decision Kyra regrets within moments as her hair, still wet from the showers, freezes to her scalp and the back of her neck. By the time they reach the coffee shop she is shivering and once inside the blast of heated air that washes over her draws a sigh of relief from her lips. She shakes shards of ice from her hair, watching the expression on Cassandra’s face as she sees the interior for the first time.

There is something dadaistic about the Fade’s decor and no matter how many times she comes in it always takes Kyra a few moments to adjust to it. The interior is done up in shades of blue and green, from the walls to the furniture to the lighting, and walking inside feels almost like entering some sort of underwater grotto. Where most places would have pictures hanging from the walls someone has instead tacked up a bizarre assortment of seemingly innocuous items. The top half of a mirror protrudes out from one wall at an angle, the wall around it covered in painted ripples as though to make it look like the mirror is rising out from the surface of a lake, while on another is set up an entire miniature tea party, complete with table and chairs, everything nailed sideways to the wall. Though probably intended to be whimsical, the overall effect is closer to macabre. Kyra finds the entire thing fascinating for reasons she does not care to examine too closely.

Cassandra, it seems, does not share that fascination. She takes in the strange surroundings with a perplexed frown and a tiny line marring the space between her brows, staring at the decorations as if she is expecting them to attack.

“What in the Maker’s name...”

Kyra lifts her hand to rub her nose in an attempt to hide her smile as they approach the counter. She lets it fall back to her side at the sight of the young man standing by the espresso machine, face hidden beneath the wide brim of his floppy hat, and shoots him a broad grin.

“Hey, Cole.” The boy lifts his head just enough that she catches a flash of pale blue eyes and he studies her with a quiet intensity. Experience has taught her that Cole will ignore anything she says until he has finished… whatever it is he is doing, so she waits with one hip propped against the counter for him to find what he is looking for.

After a long moment in which Cassandra’s gaze shifts between Kyra and Cole more than once and Kyra can see the questions there that she does not voice, Cole’s face breaks into a welcoming smile.

“You’re very bright today,” he says in lieu of a greeting, pulling down a pair of mugs and fiddling with the syrup pumps. “It’s different.”

Kyra huffs a laugh: while she is not quite sure what he is talking about she has learned over the months of their acquaintance that asking for clarification will only make the confusion worse. “Thanks, I think. It’s been a pretty good day.”

Cole shakes his head, brim of his hat waving with the gesture. “It’s not that,” he says as he pours milk into a steamer. “Happy, yes, but hopeful, too. Healing, healthy. Not yet but I’ll get there.” He pours the steamed milk into the mugs and carries them over to the counter by the register. “I like it.” He places one cup in front of Kyra and the other in front of a very confused Cassandra, who looks at the drink as though it were some kind of feral bear.

“I did not order yet,” she protests, snapping her stare from the drink to Cole. He just shrugs as he takes the twenty Kyra holds out to him. Halfway through ringing up the drinks his head snaps up, eyes wide.

“Oh!” And without any attempt at an explanation he disappears into the kitchen, leaving behind a baffled Kyra to explain things to Cassandra.

“So that’s Cole.”

The comment earns her a severe frown, complete with narrowed eyes. “I had determined that much myself, thank you. Tell me what is going on.”

Kyra shrugs, stalling for time as she tries to figure out just how to explain something she does not quite understand herself. “I stumbled across this place a few days after I moved to the city and I’ve been coming to this place pretty regularly ever since. Cole’s almost always the barista on duty and while I’ll grant he’s a little… odd, he’s a good kid.”

“And the drinks?”

Another shrug. “He gets weird if you try to order something, but leave him to his own devices and he always manages to make you what you want. Even if you didn’t realize that it’s what you wanted.” She nods toward the drink sitting innocently in front of Cassandra. “Try it. You’ll see what I mean.”

Cassandra’s skeptical look does not waver but she does as Kyra suggests, wrapping long fingers around the coffee mug and bringing it to her lips. Kyra absolutely does _not_ watch the purse of her mouth along the rim of the cup, she swears. That would be ridiculous. And bordering on creepy. Hazel eyes fly wide in startled pleasure just as Cole bursts back through the door, a plate containing some sort of flaky pastry clutched in his hand.

“I almost forgot,” he says, giving her the most kicked-puppy-dog look she has ever seen, all wide blue eyes and wobbling lower lip. Kyra isn’t sure how she is supposed to handle it; all she knows is that she desperately wants him to stop.

“But you didn’t,” she offers, the words coming out more as a question than the reassurance she had intended. It seems to do the trick, however, as Cole loses the downtrodden expression and slides the plate and a pair of forks toward them. He rings up the rest of their order and hands Kyra her change, which she drops straight into the tip jar on the counter. Picking up her drink and the mysterious but apparently vital pastry, she takes them over to her usual table in the corner, tucked away underneath a candle hanging upside down on the wall, with Cassandra following behind her.

“You did not have to pay for my drink,” Cassandra says as she slides into the seat Kyra usually claims as her own, the one with its back to the wall and facing the shop’s door. She bites her lip on a protest - that’s _her_ seat, damn it - and instead takes the chair opposite, placing the pastry on the center of the table between them with one fork sticking out toward Cassandra in a pointed if silent hint. As she has been coming here two or three times a week for months and Cole has never thought it necessary to give Kyra pastries before, she suspects that it is not meant for her.

“I know,” she admits, taking a curious sip of her own drink. The smooth sweetness of white chocolate floods her tongue, undiluted by the bitterness of espresso and she hums in contentment. “But I’m about to initiate an incredibly awkward conversation, so consider it a preemptive apology for making you suffer through it.”

That catches Cassandra’s attention. She leans forward, eyes fixed on Kyra’s face, a frown tugging at the corner of her mouth. She does not have to say anything for Kyra to read the questions swimming behind her eyes and she bites at her bottom lip, trying to pull her thoughts into some semblance of order. She has been thinking about this since they left the rec center, since the moment she realized that this was a conversation they were going to have to have at some point and she might as well get it over with, before she gets any more attached. Just in case. She just doesn’t have a fucking clue how to start it. She can’t even figure out what her issue is (or simply does not want to admit to it); this is not her first rodeo, far from her first such conversation. By this point it should not require any thought at all.

“What is going on, Kyra?” Cassandra asks and Kyra winces at the sudden suspicion in her voice. It would seem she has been silent too long.

“Relax. It’s nothing bad.” She pauses, reconsiders. “At least, I don’t think it is. You might, which is kind of why I wanted to get it out of the way now. Because I think you were actually serious about that ‘friends’ thing and so it’s going to come up sooner or later and I’d rather you hear it from me first and -”

“ _Kyra_.”

“I’m gay.” As soon as her words register, Kyra slaps her gloved palm over her mouth. “Fuck,” she spits out through her hand. “That was not how that was supposed to come out. Or I was. Whatever. Fuck.”

A single eyebrow rises. “I thought as much,” Cassandra says, the words slow and measured, as though she is still waiting for the punch line, “on both accounts.” When Kyra just gapes at her, she hums out a quiet laugh. “I was uncertain whether it was both women and men or just women, but - well, you are not subtle.”

A fierce blush floods Kyra’s cheeks and she stutters out a few meaningless syllables, all intelligent thought lost to her. At Kyra’s discomfiture, Cassandra’s mouth falls on a quiet “oh” and her hand flies to cover it. “That is what concerns you so greatly.” It is not a question so much as a dawning comprehension. “I apologize,” she says, moving her hand to massage her temples with a wince. “I suspect that is _not_ how one is supposed to react to such a pronouncement. I am...grateful you told me.”

That drags a laugh from Kyra, weak but genuine. She waves her hand, brushing away Cassandra’s apology. “It’s fine,” she assures her, lips still twitching with slightly-hysterical amusement. “It’s an honest reaction, which is all I can ask for. And it’s far better than some I’ve had to deal with. I’ll take some minor humiliation over disgust or suspicion any day.” Kyra digs her fork into the pastry on the table and brings it to her mouth to keep herself from saying anything else or dwelling on those conversations that had not gone so well. The tart bite of the fruit inside draws a grimace from her and she pushes the offending pastry closer toward Cassandra. Definitely not meant for her. She is _not_ a fan of blueberries. “Anyway, that’s really it; I just wanted you to know. And make sure you knew that I was serious about the friends thing, too. I swear it isn’t some creep-tastic attempt to get into your pants or anything.”

Cassandra frowns at her before taking a bite of the blueberry tart. Her reaction is far more favorable than Kyra’s: her eyes flutter and a little hum of surprised pleasure slips from her throat and Kyra has to lock her eyes on her hands where they are wrapped around her mug to keep from staring. She has _got_ to get this stupid crush under control. This is ridiculous. Cassandra blinks at the rest of the pastry for a moment, lost in thought as Kyra nudges it even closer, before she returns her attention to the discussion at hand with red-tinted cheeks.

“You truly feared my reaction, didn’t you?” Cassandra asks as though the very idea is foreign to her. Kyra wonders if Cassandra has ever been afraid of other people’s opinion in her life. It wouldn’t surprise her if the answer is no - she does not seem the kind of woman prone to self-doubt.

Though Kyra supposes she should not make such assumptions. Just because she wears her discomfort on her sleeve does not mean there are not other ways to handle it. She has to remind herself that as fond as she has grown of Cassandra (too fond, the sensible part of her points out) she does not actually know her that well.

When no answer is forthcoming, Cassandra takes it as the confirmation Kyra is not quite willing to give. She scoffs as she takes another bite of the rapidly-disappearing pastry.

“You mean to tell me that you did not notice Leliana and Josephine… I believe the term is ‘making eyes’ at one another all last night?”

...No. No, she had missed that part. She had thought, maybe, that Leliana might have - but that it could be mutual, could be more than a silent, unrequited interest, had never once occurred to her.

“I was too busy pretending I wasn’t surrounded by a bunch of strangers to try to psychoanalyze them,” she protests, sipping at her chocolate and avoiding Cassandra’s eyes.

“They’re engaged,” Cassandra says, as though Kyra should have been able to determine that on her own, as though Kyra’s interactions with the two women in question hadn’t been confined to awkward introductions followed by a few hours of metaphorical hiding in a corner with Cassandra. She scowls.

“Well, _that_ would have been nice to know an hour ago,” she grumbles, more to herself than anything. Cassandra smiles, eyes soft.

“For what it is worth, I do appreciate both your honesty and the courage it took to tell me. And you should know that I did not doubt your motives.”

It is Kyra’s turn to raise an eyebrow, though she expects the result is rather less imposing than when Cassandra does it. She does not have the necessary gravitas to pull off the expression properly.

“What, not once?”

Cassandra shrugs, an easy roll of her shoulders. “Perhaps at the very beginning,” she admits. “But as I said before, you are not subtle. And I can tell the difference between physical appreciation and actual intent.”

Kyra grins, a lopsided smile that is more relief than amusement, and rubs the nape of her neck. “Yeah, I try not to make a habit of pursuing straight women. It never ends well for anyone.”

Cassandra lifts her coffee mug in salute. “The sentiment is appreciated.”

There is a brief pause before Kyra is compelled to ask, “we’re okay, right?” When Cassandra’s only response is a puzzled frown, she clarifies. “I mean, things aren’t going to be weird between us now, are they?”

“Should they be? I don’t see why anything must change.”

“In other words, you’ll deal with the fact that I think you’re attractive and I’ll deal with the fact that you’re straight?” At Cassandra’s nod, Kyra huffs out a brief laugh. If there is a tinge of disappointment to it Cassandra doesn’t notice, for which Kyra is thankful. She knew, she really did, that nothing was going to come of her ill-advised crush but apparently some part of her had still been holding onto the vain hope that maybe, just maybe, she had misread things; that Cassandra’s answer would be more along the lines of “I’m not straight” than “yes, that is what I meant.” It is a hope she had not even realized existed until it turned to ash. “Yeah, I think I can manage that.” She does not allow any of her inner turmoil to show in her words and is rewarded with a genuine smile, after which - much to Kyra’s relief - the topic is abandoned in favor of less dramatic subjects.

The two spend the next half hour trading interesting but otherwise pointless stories from work or class or friends (or _friend_ , singular, in Kyra’s case). Their easy camaraderie lasts until a loud series of beeps emanates from the pocket of Cassandra’s coat, interrupting her halfway through her explanation of Iron Bull’s “boys” - Skyhold’s co-ed rugby team that he coaches and has apparently adopted. She fishes it out with a brief apology, her expression shifting from relaxation into concern the moment she sees the name on the screen. Worried hazel eyes catch Kyra’s as she answers the call.

“Pentaghast,” she snaps into the receiver, no hint of the apprehension on her face to be found in her tone. Kyra watches in silence as Cassandra listens to the voice on the other end of the line, worry lines smoothing out as whoever it is speaks.

“There is no reason to worry, Cullen,” she assures the caller, a hint of relieved laughter in her words. “I am simply spending time with a friend.” She meets Kyra’s gaze again, eyes crinkling at the corners, and warmth floods Kyra’s belly. Another silence as this “Cullen” speaks and Cassandra’s humor fades to a sigh. “Of course he did. I do not know why I am surprised. Daniel told you?” She closes her eyes and rubs at her temple with her free hand as Cullen responds. “No, I needed to know. I’ll be there in half an hour; tell Daniel I’ll meet him there. And tell him that I did not miss the fact that he had you inform me instead of doing it himself.”

She ends the call without waiting for a response and when she looks back at Kyra there is a silent apology in her eyes.

“Everything okay?” Kyra asks as she begins gathering up the trash on the table and piling it on the long-empty pastry plate. She can read between the lines of the conversation well enough to know that Cassandra is about to leave.

Cassandra levels a glare at the phone still in her hand before rising to her feet. “I have no idea. That was my roommate, Cullen. Something has come up at work and I have to-”

Kyra cuts her off with a shake of her head, rising to her feet. “Don’t worry about it, I know how that goes. Go kick his ass; I have a thesis I should be working on anyway.” She drops their garbage in the trash can on her way to the door but Cassandra stops her before she makes it outside.

“You will be there next week?”

Kyra grins, the expression mirrored in Cassandra’s crooked smile. “I’ll be there,” she promises. They exchange hasty farewells before Cassandra disappears into the cold night, leaving a blast of winter air behind her. When Kyra turns back to wave goodbye to Cole, the boy is grinning at her.

“What?” she asks, suddenly self-conscious. Cole sees so much, reads people so well that she is afraid of what it is that put that expression on his face. But he just keeps smiling, blue eyes dancing beneath the brim of his hat.

“She liked the blueberries.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for panic attacks in this chapter. If this is going to be an issue thing for you, skip down to the first page break. I'm pretty sure that you'll be able to figure out everything you missed from there.
> 
> Also, in case anyone was wondering, I hate trying to format things in AO3. One wrong button and everything is screwed up. Ugh.
> 
> Note: apparently the page breaks didn't want to work when I first uploaded this??? They should be okay now...

It takes until she is preparing dinner the next night for Kyra to realize that attending Cassandra’s class next Saturday gives her the perfect excuse to avoid Felix’s party the same night. (She does not think too hard on the fact that this would usually have been her immediate response upon receiving the invitation, not an afterthought hours later. There are too many implications wrapped up in that fact, implications she has no desire to acknowledge.) Within moments of this thought she is dialing Dorian’s number - after ensuring that she is in fact calling the correct person this time - and informing him of the situation. He is more pleased at the idea of getting ditched for the evening than Kyra thinks is normal and if she were not fully aware of the source of his delight (two months of shoving her kicking and screaming towards a social life are finally looking like they might start paying off) she might have been offended by his eagerness to get rid of her. Or panicked over the thought that she had done something to drive him away. Whichever. As it is, she mostly just wants to knock the smug smirk she can hear him wearing from his face.

“Look at you, all grown up and ready to brave the big bad outside world all on your own,” he teases. “It brings a tear to the eye, really.”

“Dorian,” she coos, syrup-sweet and deadly, as she dumps her pot of spaghetti noodles into the waiting colander, “if you don’t shut the fuck up I swear I will stab you right in your stupid face.”

Dorian just laughs, her threat every bit as ineffective as she had known it would be. “Through the phone? My dear Lavellan, while I have the utmost respect for your many, bafflingly-varied skills, I suspect that such a feat is somewhat beyond even you.”

“Watch me,” she shoots back before sighing, the fight gone out of her. She pushes up on her toes to grab a plate from the overhead cabinet, bracing herself with her gloved hand on the countertop. “Honestly, _lethallin_ , I don’t -”

The word tumbles from her mouth without thought and the moment her brain catches up with her tongue the world shudders to a halt. The plate falls from suddenly-numb fingers to shatter on the floor, shards of ceramic skidding across the linoleum. The noise echoes through the phone still tucked between her shoulder and her ear to Dorian, whose voice sharpens from playful to intent.

“What was that?”

And Kyra can’t answer, can’t get her throat to loosen enough to let the words through. Her lungs won’t work; she gasps for breath, the air like fire in her lungs and her pulse thrums in her ears, an overwhelming rush of sound and she can’t think - _why can’t she think_ \- thoughts slip-sliding away from grasping fingers. Something has wrapped around her chest and her hands tremble where they press against the edge of the counter, the only thing keeping her upright and her palm _throbs_ and -

“Lavellan? Kyra! What the _fuck_ is going on?”

She can hear Dorian’s panic but it doesn’t process, his words just so much white noise and her head is so _loud_ why is it so loud she can’t…

 _“Kaffas_. You’re having a panic attack, aren’t you? I’m coming over there. Just stay on the fucking phone. I mean it, Lavellan. I’ll be there in five minutes. Can you hear me? _Kyra_.”

The last thing she hears is the jingle of keys and the slam of a door before the phone slips from her shoulder to clatter on the floor. She slides to her knees as the world burns around her.

 

* * *

 

 

She doesn’t know how long she stays like that, lost in her own head and detached from reality. Long enough for Dorian to arrive as promised and pull her from the floor, brushing shards of shattered plate from her palms and dragging her into the living room. When she is finally able to look outside herself, to notice what is going on around her, she is curled up on her couch, wrapped in a thick woolen blanket with her head on Dorian’s shoulder and his hand carding through her curls. Memory returns more slowly than sensation but as it does she feels her face flame. She had been doing so well: it had been months since her last attack of this magnitude. She had honestly thought she was getting better. And now Dorian has seen it, has seen her at her weakest and he is going to realize what a fucking mess she is and he is going to leave and -

She drags that train of thought to a screeching halt. _He is still here_ , she tells herself, forces herself to believe it. _He is still here; he isn’t going to abandon me. Not for this. Not for anything. He_ isn’t.

She must squirm or make a noise or something to let Dorian know she is awake. His hand tightens in her hair and his moustache tickles as it brushes against her forehead.

“Feeling better?” he asks and though it does not take a genius to realize that the nonchalance of the question is feigned Kyra cannot find any hint of judgment there, no matter how hard she listens for it. The knot of fear in her stomach loosens, just a little.

She nods into his shoulder and the tension in the muscles under her cheek eases. Dorian’s sigh of relief ruffles the hair at the top of her head.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.” The words come out scratchy, hoarse but intelligible. And it’s true, she has no desire to discuss anything that has happened in the last… however long she has been out. She doesn’t want to talk about Rion. She doesn’t want to talk about the flames that haunt her nightmares, the heat and pain she can still feel pressing in around her. She doesn’t want to talk about triggers or anxiety or PTSD or whatever diagnosis her therapists finally settled on, long after she had walked out on them. She doesn’t want to talk about any of it. Dorian’s chin bumps her cheekbone as he nods.

“All right.” There is a brief pause as he considers his next words. “What you said, right before. You called me something I didn’t recognize.” Her shoulders tense and he follows the sentence with a hasty retraction. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

 _“Lethallin_ ,” she interrupts before he can say anything else. It is easier to say this time, the shock giving way to the familiar ache that twists inside her at every reminder of Rion. “It’s elvhen,” she continues, as though there was any doubt. As though she has not avoided the entire language for almost a year. Eleven months and nine days, corrects the part of her that is always, always keeping count. “It means ‘clan’ or ‘kin.’” It means more than that, means _brother_ and _safety_ and now _loss_. But that is only to her and she is Not Thinking About It, not if she wants to avoid slipping right back into that dark place she has only just escaped.

She lets the admission hang there, refuses to look up to see Dorian’s reaction. She understands the implications her words carry and while she has no desire to retract them - she said nothing but the (partial) truth - she is a little afraid of his response. She has laid a claim on him, crossed a line he might object to. But she shouldn’t have worried. His arms tighten around her and his lips curve into a smile against her hair. They sit in companionable silence for a handful of minutes before Dorian breaks it with a gentle tug of one curl.

“I don’t know about you, but I am _starving_. I don’t suppose that spaghetti of yours is at all salvageable, is it?”

At the mention of food Kyra’s stomach gives a loud gurgle and she muffles a somewhat hysterical giggle in Dorian’s shoulder before pushing herself to unsteady feet. “I’ll see what I can do,” she promises. She straightens her disheveled clothes, scrubs at her face with both hands in an attempt to wipe away the last traces of her breakdown, and heads toward the kitchen. “Find us something to watch while we eat,” she calls over her shoulder. She sees Dorian reaching for the television remote and smiles, a little wobbly but real enough. “And for fuck’s sake, no more of those blasted documentaries!”

 

* * *

 

Compared to the shitstorm that was her Sunday night, Kyra’s workweek is somewhat anticlimactic. She makes it through her classes and her thesis research without anything blowing up or catching fire, a small miracle in itself, and by the time her Friday lab rolls around she has managed to put her panic attack behind her in favor of moving forward. (That is, she is pretending it never happened and has finally stopped jumping at every little noise, terrified that it would be the trigger that sets off the next one. She’s not over it, not by a long shot, but maybe if she tells herself she is enough times she’ll start to believe the lie.)

As she makes the trek across campus to the building housing the Intro Physics labs, she pulls out her phone and sends off a text message to Cassandra, her first attempt at communication since the rather abrupt end to their coffee not-a-date the weekend before. (For all that she had threatened random three a.m. text messages, until now she had not quite been able to figure out how one goes about initiating a text conversation with someone who, while technically a friend, is still a near-stranger.)

_out of curiousity wtf is proper protocol for teaching a class in which one of your students spent an hour soundly kicking your ass the weekend before?_

Part of her still expects Cassandra to ignore such a blatantly ridiculous text (though she will admit that the question itself is one that she would love to have an answer to, preferably before lab starts in a quarter of an hour) but after only a few minutes, just long enough for Kyra to make it to the lab building, her phone beeps out an unfamiliar pattern. Grumbling a bit at the realization that Dorian has been mucking around with her ringtones _again_ , she checks the screen to see Cassandra’s name blinking up at her with one unread message.

_Not my area of expertise. If you are truly concerned, I can ask Josephine._

Kyra stifles a snicker and pulls open the front door. As soon as her fingers have sufficiently defrosted from her cross-campus slog through below freezing temperatures, she taps out a reply.

_not really. about to teach lab with sera & dagna. should be fun_

She makes it all the way into the room - she hesitates to call it a lab on account of the fact that she’s a pretentious little shit and the glorified janitorial closet they have given her for the class in no way constitutes a _proper_ physics lab - before her text alert sounds with Cassandra’s response. Though her students have already started filing in, a glance at the clock tells her that she still has a few minutes before lab is technically supposed to begin, minutes she takes advantage of to read the message.

_You have an odd definition of fun. Good luck._

She sticks her tongue out at the phone, ignoring the fact that Cassandra can’t actually see her, before she realizes that her students _can_ and hastily scrambles to school her face into something resembling neutrality. The last thing she wants to deal with is a bunch of eighteen and nineteen year olds she is supposed to be teaching sticking their noses into her private life.

_thanks. think im gonna need it. hopefully no one dies. howd it go w/ work btw? havent had a chance to ask. kick anyones ass?_

Sera and Dagna arrive as she switches her phone to silent, sending her cheerful waves as they make their way to the table at the opposite side of the room, as far from the teacher’s station as it is possible to get. Kyra bites back a sigh - considering the scheduled lab for the day involves dropping things from as high as possible, it is not going to take any creativity at all for them to cause untold chaos. But with Professor Roderick so convinced she is lying, there is little she can do about it short of recording the entire lab as evidence (and she has thought about it, but she also has the sneaking suspicion that the two girls in question would notice the camera and proceed to behave perfectly until the moment she turns it off), so she grits her teeth and moves out to the front of the room to begin explaining the principles behind the day’s lab.

The lecture takes little of her concentration - she could explain the theory and equations behind freefall in her sleep and quite possibly had while preparing for her subject GRE three years before - so when her phone starts blinking with a new message five minutes in she is able to keep talking despite her sudden inability to think about anything other than Cassandra’s response, her fingers twitching toward her phone. She makes it through the basic rundown of the procedure without embarrassing herself too badly (though if asked later she would not be able to say what she had talked about for the last ten minutes of her speech) and gets her students started on the lab itself before she allows herself to duck over to her desk to check her texts.

_Unfortunately, no. Though I would have appreciated the opportunity to vent some frustration - Daniel and I were taken off our case and I find myself with the sudden desire to punch someone._

Kyra bites at her lower lip to conceal her smile and glances over the room, checking to make sure the students are both behaving themselves and understanding what they’re doing, at least to some extent. No one looks too lost and even Sera and Dagna, for once in their lives, seem to be performing the lab as intended (which Kyra takes as a sign that something horrible is about to happen but until it actually does she is willing to leave them to it). Only once she is certain everyone is sufficiently occupied does Kyra allow herself to settle into her desk chair, phone in hand and one eye on her students.

_im sorry, that sucks. your boss is an idiot_

_On that, we agree._

_coffee after class again tomorrow? you can vent to me before you have to deal w/ him again on monday_

She hesitates before sending the last text, running through the wording at least a half dozen times to make sure that it will not be misinterpreted. She considers adding some sort of disclaimer to the end - _I swear I’m not asking you out; promise it’s not a date_ ; something - until she tells herself to stop being a fucking idiot - Cassandra will know what she is asking, and what she is not (and if Kyra is wrong about her, if Cassandra is the type to assume any invitation is an attempt to get a date, then it is best to know that now) - and sends the message as it is.

The five minutes Cassandra takes to respond are among the most nerve-wracking in Kyra’s recent memory. Creators only know what her students think of the spectacle she must be making, unable to sit still and constantly checking her phone. More than once she catches Sera watching her from the corner of her eye, full lips curled in a smirk (and Kyra is going to get a persecution complex if Sera keeps this up but she can’t figure out a way to tell the girl to stop _looking at her_ without admitting to some sort of weakness that will inevitably be used against her). But eventually a response does come and Kyra almost drops her phone in her haste to read it.

 _I would enjoy that_.

Her breath whooshes from her lungs in an explosive sigh of relief, drawing curious glances from the two students working nearest to her desk. Face bright red, she waves them off and sends one last text before tucking her phone into her pocket and focusing on her class.

_awesome. i should prlly pay attention to the walking disasters now tho. see you tomorrow!_


	8. Chapter 8

Saturday’s self-defense class with Cassandra and the Iron Bull proceeds much as it did the week before, with Kyra striving not to make a fool of herself while Sera wipes the floor with her, cackling the entire time (and Kyra _still_ doesn’t get an explanation for her inexplicable good behavior in the lab the day before beyond a vague “you’re not so bad, yeah?”). At the end of the class Iron Bull, Sera, and Dagna head off to wherever Iron Bull’s team is hosting their party after Cassandra and Kyra decline invitations that are offered more out of courtesy than any expectation of their acceptance. As soon as they are gone Cassandra and Kyra start in the direction of the Fade, chatting quietly on the way. It is not until they are settled in at their table, the evening’s mystery drinks in their hands and a strudel on a plate between them, that Kyra makes good on her offer from the day before.

“I’m pretty sure I promised you a chance to rant at me about idiot bosses and the like,” she says, sipping at her drink. Something with raspberry this time. And espresso, which she appreciates - she could definitely use the caffeine.

Cassandra shakes her head with a soft laugh. “That is not necessary - I would not wish to bore you.”

Kyra waves away her concern, grinning. “If I thought I’d be bored, I wouldn’t have offered. You said you got pulled off a case?”

With a sigh Cassandra settles into her seat, long fingers drumming a rhythm on the side of her coffee cup. Kyra is momentarily distracted watching the twisting dance of the bones in her hand, the gentle curl of her wrist, before the sound of Cassandra’s voice pulls her attention back to where it belongs. “We did. There had been...complaints about an officer on the force. Accusations of corruption. My partner, Daniel, and I were investigating, trying to determine the truth behind the allegations, but before we could complete more than a superficial examination of the situation the chief reassigned the case to another pair.”

Kyra leans back and stretches her legs out in front of her, wishing she knew more about the inner workings of the police department. As it is her only knowledge comes from too many episodes of Castle and NCIS and for some reason she doubts those are going to be of any help here. “Is that unusual?”

“It was once,” Cassandra admits, prodding at the pastry with her fork without showing any intention of eating it. “It has become more common in recent months and I do not like it.”

“Because you’re wasting your time on cases you won’t be allowed to finish?” Kyra asks, though she doubts it’s that simple. Not with the way Cassandra is frowning and glaring at the plate, not with everything she has learned about the woman over the last week. Cassandra purses her mouth into a thin line and lifts her eyes to meet Kyra’s. There is a degree of calculation there that Kyra has not seen since their first meeting and she waits as Cassandra studies her for a long moment. Eventually her expression settles and Kyra finds herself leaning forward, curious as to what she is about to say.

“Because I cannot think of a single legitimate reason for it to be happening.”

And that’s... Kyra doesn’t know what to do with that. What Cassandra is suggesting is so far beyond her experience that all she can do is sit there like an idiot, mouth agape. The politics of working in academia she can handle (barely, and even then only by ignoring them as much as possible). Potentially-corrupt cops? Not so much. “What are you going to do about it?” she asks after taking a moment to process it as best she can. If she knows anything about Cassandra, it is that she will not sit idly by and let something like this happen.

“I do not know.” The words are accompanied by a vicious stab at the strudel, spilling strawberry filling onto the white plate. The following frustrated glower tugs at Kyra’s heart and she shifts her legs to tap the toe of her shoe against Cassandra’s boot. She then reaches over to pull the plate away from Cassandra and toward herself - clearly Cassandra isn’t going to eat it and it would be a shame for it to go to waste. And Kyra has always been a sucker for strawberry anything.

“You’ll figure it out,” she says with perhaps more confidence than she ought to have. She believes it, though: she cannot imagine anything standing in Cassandra’s way for long. She digs her teeth into her lower lip, considering whether or not to say anything more before giving a mental “to hell with it.” “And I know I’m not exactly the most useful person to have around for something like this, but you know if there’s anything I can do to help you just have to say so.”

That earns her a hesitant smile. “I - thank you,” Cassandra replies, voice warm and Kyra has to duck her head and stare at her drink lest she get a little _too_ lost in hazel eyes gone soft with appreciation. _Friends_ , she reminds herself, _you’re friends. Get ahold of yourself_.

She searches for something else to say, something to break the sudden tension that is likely only a figment of her imagination ( _oh, please, let it just be her imagination, please don’t let Cassandra realize_ ) when her pocket bursts into a rousing rendition of “Bringing Sexy Back.” She flushes under the weight of Cassandra’s judgmental stare, complete with arched eyebrow and pursed lips, and mutters a defensive “he keeps changing it” as she answers the call.

“All right, what’s on fire this time?”

“I’m sorry, is this Kyra Lavellan?”

The accent is familiar but the voice is not, gentle where she was expecting sharp. She shoots up from her comfortable slouch, spine straight and shoulders back, fingers clenching around her drink.

“Who is this and what are you doing with Dorian’s phone?” she demands, her too-vivid imagination providing her with a half-dozen worst-case scenarios, both unasked for and unnecessary. Panic can wait until there is something to panic about. For all she knows there is a perfectly reasonable, non-panic-inducing explanation.

“This is Felix Alexius - I’m a friend of Dorian’s?” Approximately sixty percent of Kyra’s nerves settle at the revelation. Felix is one of Dorian’s People, one of those he actually trusts. The remaining forty percent of them point out that she still has no idea _why_ Felix is calling her on Dorian’s phone when he presumably has one of his own he could have used.

“He has mentioned you,” she admits, unwilling to say anything further without more information. Cassandra catches her eye and tilts her head to one side, a silent “what’s going on?” Kyra replies with a helpless shrug: she has no fucking clue. Dorian is supposed to be at Felix’s party, a party she ditched in favor of spending time with Cassandra. If something has happened that she could have stopped had she been there, she will never forgive herself.

“It’s Dorian,” Felix replies and Kyra’s blood freezes in her veins. She doesn’t know what expression crosses her face, but whatever it is makes Cassandra’s eyes narrow as she sets her own drink aside and leans forward, closer to Kyra, face scrunched in concern. “There’s been a...development. Can you get over here?”

And it would seem blind panic _was_ the appropriate response after all. Her right hand tightens around her drink, knuckles white. The paper of the cup starts to bend under the pressure until a frowning Cassandra pulls it from her grasp, setting it down next to her own as she slides her hand into Kyra’s, replacing fragile paper with warm skin. At any other time the action would be enough to turn Kyra into a puddle of goo on the floor, but right now all she can think about is Dorian and her only reaction is to tighten her hand around Cassandra’s. Some of the tension bleeds away as Cassandra returns the pressure and Kyra is able to pull her thoughts together enough to speak.

“Felix, _what happened_?”

Felix sighs, the sound more tired than concerned. If she knew him better Kyra might have been comforted by that fact but for all she knows he is the kind of person who would react to the end of the fucking world with nothing more than weary resignation.

“What do you know about Dorian’s father?” he finally asks, and Kyra swears. She doesn’t know much, but she knows enough. This is _not_ a good development.

“Is he okay?” It is the only question that matters. If Dorian wants her to know more, he’ll tell her later. And if he doesn’t want her to know then she won’t go behind his back and ask his friend.

“He’s not hurt, if that’s what you’re worried about. But he is… in a state. I can’t keep an eye on him all the time, not with so many people here, and I’m not really comfortable letting him go home alone like this. I was hoping you’d be able to come pick him up and ideally stay with him for a while.”

Another string of cursing greets Felix’s words. “I don’t have a car, but if you can talk him out of his keys I can drive him home in his. I’ll have to catch a cab out, though, so it’ll take me about forty five minutes to get there.”

“That’s fine.” There is no mistaking the relief in Felix’s voice. “I’ll try to keep an eye on him until then.”

“Don’t let him do anything stupid,” she warns, tucking her phone between her ear and her shoulder and using her now-free hand to rub at her eyes, the cotton of her glove soft on the delicate skin of her eyelids. “Stupider than usual, that is.”

“I’ll do my best.” After making sure that Kyra knows how to find the Alexius estate, Felix bids her farewell and ends the call.

“ _Shit-fuck-hell-balls-cock-it-all-_ ” At each consecutive swear Cassandra’s eyebrow rises higher and higher until it threatens to disappear into her hairline.

“What happened?” she asks, voice carefully neutral though her grip on Kyra’s hand does not lessen. Kyra scrubs her other hand through damp curls.

“Fuck if I know.” She looks up to meet Cassandra’s eyes. “I’m sorry. It looks like it’s my turn to bail early. One of these days we’ll actually make it through an evening without any minor emergencies springing up.”

“Dorian is in trouble?” There is something considering in Cassandra’s eyes and if Kyra weren’t so preoccupied with fretting over her best friend she might have wondered about it. As it is, she barely even notices.

“Yeah. He’s at a party outside of town and something’s gone wrong. I don’t know what, only that I apparently became his emergency contact when I wasn’t looking.”

Cassandra gives a quiet laugh, standing up and using their joined hands to pull Kyra to her feet. “This doesn’t surprise you, surely. A blind man could see how you care about each other.”

Kyra's only response is a soft hum of acknowledgment as Cassandra's hand slides from hers, her thoughts already occupied trying to determine the best place to catch a cab at nine o'clock on a Saturday night. Nowhere near where she is, she knows that much. She is on the exact wrong side of campus.

As she gathers up their garbage, knocking back the last of her coffee before throwing the now-empty cup in the trash, Cassandra watches her, the weight of her gaze heavy on Kyra’s back. Kyra doesn’t know what is running through her head just then but is too distracted with her own concerns to press her on it. Cassandra will talk when she is ready. Or she won’t and Kyra will have to deal with it later. Either way.

“When she is ready” is apparently once they leave The Fade. Where they should part ways, Cassandra back to the rec center parking lot and Kyra in the opposite direction, toward the city center where she might feasibly find a cab to take her to Felix’s, Cassandra instead nods once, as though coming to a decision, and wraps her hand around Kyra’s wrist.

“Come with me,” she orders before leading Kyra back toward the rec center.

“Where are we going?” Kyra asks, though she does not fight Cassandra’s hold, trusting her not to waste time.

“You will not be able to find a cab from here,” Cassandra says and Kyra nods in agreement. She had determined that much for herself. “My car is two minutes away; it will be faster if I drive you.”

Shock stills Kyra’s tongue for long moments as she processes the offer, feet moving on autopilot to keep her close to Cassandra. “You’d do that for me?”

She hates how lost she sounds, how overwhelmed. And she hates how she knows it isn’t because of Dorian, isn’t because of whatever assholery his father has pulled (because even without knowing the details of what happened, she knows it’s all his father’s fault). It is because of Cassandra, because instead of saying goodbye and leaving Kyra to handle the situation on her own she stepped in to do what she could to make it easier. And Kyra is terrified of what that says about her as a friend.

Cassandra is looking at her with that confused little frown again, as though Kyra is some mystery she can’t solve. After a moment she shakes her head and releases her grip on Kyra's wrist to fish her keys out of her pocket. “I have no other plans for the evening,” she says with a shrug. Kyra catches the tip of her tongue between her teeth to keep herself from saying anything sappy or embarrassing - more embarrassing, that is. Because this? This behavior right here? This is ruining any progress she might have made toward stamping out this stupid crush.

But that is something she can dwell on later, when her best friend isn’t in some sort of trouble. She shakes off her distraction and nods at Cassandra.

“All right,” she breathes and watches Cassandra’s mouth curl up in approval. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because I don't think I've mentioned it before, you should all come talk to me [on tumblr](http://spectre-tabris.tumblr.com)!


	9. Chapter 9

An uneasy silence reigns for the entirety of the drive to the Alexius estate fifteen minutes outside of town. Kyra spends the trip mired in worst-case scenarios, contemplating everything that might possibly have gone wrong. Though Felix had said that Dorian was uninjured, Kyra is well aware of the staggering number of ways you can hurt someone without bringing them actual physical harm. She does not know Dorian’s father, does not know the source of the problems between them, but that just allows her overactive imagination to throw out any number of increasingly-distressing situations that she has no way of disproving. To her relief Cassandra leaves her to her silence, her attention fixed on the road before them. Every once in a while her eyes will dart over to where Kyra sits twirling her phone in her hand (she is terrified that if she lets it out of her sight for even a moment she will miss a vital phone call or text message) but though Kyra can see the concern lurking behind those brief glances she never says anything. Kyra appreciates that consideration more than she can say.

When she had first heard Dorian refer to his mentor’s home as an estate, Kyra had assumed he was exaggerating for effect (it would not be the first time, after all, not with his fondness for drama). She had been expecting a large-ish house, seeming bigger than it is without neighboring buildings to add perspective. Instead Cassandra drives up a wide curved drive lined on either side with parked cars of every imaginable make and model toward a building that can only be called a house in the loosest sense of the word. There are at least four floors with more windows overlooking the drive than Kyra can count, though admittedly she does not try too hard. Her attention is focused instead on the impossibility of finding one man in the labyrinth that she knows must lie within the front door.

She expects Cassandra to drop her off at the door and wrinkles her brow when she maneuvers her car into a free space on the side of the driveway instead. At Kyra’s confused frown she rolls her eyes heavenward, as though seeking guidance.

“You’re not going in there alone,” she says in a tone that suffers no argument and Kyra smiles, more out of relief than amusement. She had not been looking forward to fighting her way through the crowds of strangers in search of Dorian. The knowledge that she will have Cassandra at her side makes the entire idea that much less intimidating. (She suspects that the idea of having Cassandra at her side would make _any_ idea much less intimidating, but that is a thought she chooses not to dwell on. Especially not now.)

They clamber out of the car and Kyra leads the way to the front door, the sights and sounds of the party flooding her panic-enhanced senses. Lights fill almost every window and a deep bass beat pounds through the walls, making Kyra’s teeth throb in time. The front door stands open, leaving the indoors at the mercy of the winter air. While the wide foyer contains fewer people than Kyra had feared, she has no idea how to tell if any of them are Felix or how to go about tracking down Dorian in this unfamiliar place and in the absence of any better ideas she opts to pick a direction and pray she stumbles upon where she is supposed to be. No one seems to pay them any mind and with Cassandra at her shoulder she makes her way farther into the house in search of her friend.

Five rooms and two illogically-placed hallways later, she is forced to admit defeat. They have seen humans in more degrees of inebriation than she knew existed and more than one couple mere moments away from public sex (and she can feel Cassandra’s silent disapproval radiating off her at the sight), but not one sign of Dorian or the party's elusive host. She screws up her courage (with a wry thought of _the things I do for this man_ ) and asks for directions from the nearest person who seems at least semi-coherent, a tall blonde with red-painted lips pulled into a too-sharp smile, only to receive a bored shrug in reply. The next two people she asks are equally useless but the fourth is able to point her in the right direction, toward a study on the far side of the house.

Kyra pushes open the study door and all the air rushes from her lung when she sees Dorian sprawled on a couch inside, elegant even in repose. Standing beside him is a man Kyra assumes is Felix, short with soft features and dark hair, whom she ignores in favor of her friend. She breaks into a sprint upon seeing them, darting to Dorian’s side with Cassandra following at a more sedate pace.

“Lavellan, I take it?” Felix asks as she passes him and he sounds far more tired than he had on the phone not half an hour earlier. Kyra shoots him a distracted half-smile, too busy checking on Dorian to offer any more of a greeting.

Dorian does not appear injured and though Felix had told her as much it is still a relief to see it for herself. His eyes are closed and he has one hand draped across his forehead, looking like nothing so much as an Antebellum heiress lounging on her veranda.

“Don’t be a fool, Felix. Lavellan isn’t - oh.” Dorian opens his eyes and blinks up at her, squinting despite the room’s comfortable lighting. With one look at his glassy eyes Kyra knows why Felix called her: he is in no state to drive himself home. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be out with your lovely Cassandra.”

Out of the corner of her eye Kyra sees Cassandra’s brow rise and she lifts one hand to press her fingers to her temple, the other resting on Dorian’s shoulder. “I was. Then Felix called me to come drive your drunk ass home.”

There are other things she wants to say, serious things - _are you okay? what happened? how can I help?_ \- but that has never been how their friendship works. So she couches her concern in gentle teasing and leaves Dorian to decide whether or not he wants to talk about it.

“That traitor,” he grumbles and Kyra takes that as a no, he does not. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Uh-huh,” Kyra replies as she reaches out to pull him to his feet. He wobbles as he stands and Kyra slides in to pull his arm over her shoulder, allowing him to use her as a crutch. This puts her facing Cassandra and Felix and she can see the concern in both their faces. She does not know how to reassure Felix, but she offers Cassandra a slight smile and shallow nod. “Regardless, we’re getting kicked out anyway and there is no power on this earth that will convince me to let you behind the wheel of a car. Also, I think Cassandra would arrest us both if I tried.” At her words Dorian frowns at Cassandra as though he is just now noticing her presence. He opens his mouth to make what Kyra knows will be some smart-ass comment but she cuts him off before he has a chance to speak. “Do you have everything?”

Dorian rolls his eyes but allows the subject change, obediently patting his pockets before frowning. At the sound of keys jingling Kyra looks up to see Felix holding Dorian’s keyring in the air with a smirk. He tosses them to her as Dorian spits what she assumes is a curse in Tevene.

“I am perfectly capable of driving myself, thank you,” he snaps, undeterred by the fact that the only thing keeping him upright Kyra’s shoulder wedged under his arm. Kyra rolls her eyes and tucks the keys into her pocket.

“You’re a fucking liar.” She sees him eyeing her pocket and shifts her stance, moving her hip away from him. “Try it and I swear I’ll bite you.”

“Promises, promises.” But Kyra notices that he does not make any attempt to retrieve the keys and counts it as a victory. A minor victory, but a victory all the same. She will take what she can get tonight.

“We should go,” Cassandra interrupts before Kyra has a chance to respond. Kyra sighs.

“Yeah, I know.” She looks up at Felix around Dorian’s arm. “Thank you for calling me. And for keeping an eye on him for me.” There is a pause as she starts to guide Dorian to the door, followed by “also, would you mind telling me how to get out of here? Because I have no idea where the fuck I am.”

Felix laughs, a warm, generous sound, and takes the lead, the other three following behind him. They make a motley picture, Kyra is certain, with her and Cassandra bracketing an unsteady Dorian (although she can tell he is trying to look unaffected, he is not nearly as coordinated as he thinks he is). But no one they pass spares them more than a glance and with Felix as a guide they make it to the front door in a fraction of the time it took Kyra and Cassandra to go the other direction. Felix sees them out with a final admonishment to take care of Dorian, something Kyra struggles not to take offense to. As though anything else is even an option.

Once they reach the curving driveway Kyra digs her elbow into Dorian’s ribs, forcing his attention back to her. “Where’d you park?”

Dorian unfolds himself enough to scan their surroundings before waving off to the left with an uncaring shrug. “Somewhere over there.”

Kyra groans and pulls the car keys out of her pocket. “Helpful, thanks,” she grumbles as she presses the unlock button on the fob, listening for the answering beep. The lights flash on a car a few yards away, its outline just visible through the gloom, and she makes a sound of triumph as she recognizes it as Dorian’s.

“Do you need assistance getting him inside?” Cassandra asks and Kyra smiles at her around Dorian’s head.

“I’ve got this. Thank you. Seriously. For everything.”

The concern in Cassandra’s eyes does not abate but she does allow Kyra to walk the rest of the way to the car unescorted. Though Kyra notices that she stays where she is instead of heading toward to her own vehicle, keeping an eye on Kyra and Dorian as they walk away. There is something comforting in her vigil, Kyra muses as she dumps Dorian into the passenger seat of his car, in the knowledge that anyone who would want to harm them would have to go through Cassandra first. And Kyra doesn’t think much of the chances of anyone stupid enough to try _that_.

She waves to Cassandra as she climbs into the driver’s seat, sliding the seat forward to accommodate her shorter legs, but it is not until Kyra has started the engine and turned on the headlights that Cassandra finally abandons her self-imposed guard duty to head for her own car.

As soon as the doors are shut and the car in motion, all the fight drains from Dorian’s body. He slumps in his seat, eyes closed and head resting against the seat back. There is a moment of quiet as Kyra adjusts to the feeling of being behind the wheel of a car - this is not the first time she has driven Dorian’s, for one reason or another, but it always feels strange at first. She has never been a fan of driving. As the lights of the Alexius estate shrink in the rearview mirror, Dorian breaks the silence.

“I suppose this is the part where you give me some speech about how ‘this isn’t a healthy coping mechanism, Dorian,’” he mutters, not looking at her. His tone shifts up an octave on the last words as though mimicking her voice and Kyra considers objecting - she doesn’t sound like that, surely? - before letting it slide: this is not the time. In the end she just laughs, a sound more bitter than amused.

“Right. Because I totally have a leg to stand on regarding healthy coping mechanisms. Because you _didn’t_ have to drag me off my kitchen floor last week due to my utter lack of healthy coping mechanisms. That was a totally different Kyra. I have my shit together. Obviously.”

“Oh, are we talking about that now?” Dorian’s words are teasing but there is a bite to them that is impossible to miss. She shrugs, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel as she waits at a red light. She had known Dorian is not pleased with her unwillingness to discuss certain topics (any more than she is pleased by his own intransigence on others) but this is the first time he has ever let it show.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” she throws back, because it’s not like she is the only one keeping secrets in this relationship. Only the fact that she knows Dorian is as loathe to initiate a “sharing and caring” moment as she is allows her to make the offer (threat? ultimatum? even she isn’t certain), safe in the knowledge that he will never take her up on it.

Dorian snorts and when he opens his eyes his expression is miles away. “Wouldn’t that be something?” he murmurs, thoughtful. “It almost makes you wonder who would win a game of ‘my life is shit,’ anyway.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to be a competition,” Kyra drawls. If she keeps it light she doesn’t have to actually think about it. “And even if it were, I have no idea how you would go about judging something like that. Is there a point system? Five points for a secret child, two for an angry ex-spouse, four for childhood trauma? Who decides what’s worth more? It sounds horribly subjective.”

Dorian chokes out a laugh and Kyra allows herself to relax, just a little, at the sound. “You are such a scientist,” he accuses and she smirks at him for a moment before sobering.

“You know that if you ever do want to talk, I’ll listen, right?” she asks, because it needs to be said. “I’m not gonna poke at you about it or anything, but the offer stands if you ever feel like it.”

Her words earn her a groan that is not as irritated as she thinks Dorian intends it to be. “So that’s a ‘no’ to the ‘healthy coping mechanisms’ talk but a ‘yes’ to the ‘feelings and fluffy bunnies’ one, I take it?”

And Kyra knows when to take a hint, letting the conversation drop and turning on the radio to fill the silence it leaves behind. The rest of the drive is filled with quiet bickering over the station.

Kyra pulls into the driveway of Dorian’s house and shoves the driver’s seat as far back as it will go before opening the door (she hadn’t the first time she drove Dorian’s car, and he still hasn’t stopped complaining about banging his knees on the steering wheel the next morning). She keeps an eye on Dorian as he gets out of the car, waiting to offer aid until it looks like he might need it: he is not fragile, no matter what happened tonight, and he will not appreciate it if she treats him like he is. With Kyra one step behind him Dorian makes it from the car to the front door with nothing more worrying than a slight weave to his step but as soon as he reaches the door he stops, crosses his arms, and stares at Kyra.

It takes her a shameful amount of time to connect the impatient look on his face to the keyring dangling from her fingers, but the moment she does she feels an embarrassed flush suffuse her cheeks. Then it is her turn to grumble as she fumbles for the house key.

Dorian’s home had surprised her the first time she had visited, though as she got to know him better she came to realize that it isn’t that surprising after all. It is a three-bedroom, single-story house with furnishings that are more comfortable than stylish. Oh, it is still classy and undoubtedly cost more than Kyra ever wants to think about but even someone as fashion-blind as she is can see where style has given way to comfort. The couch is too big and too fluffy to be truly “fashionable,” the armchairs overstuffed instead of elegant. Books cover every available surface and some unavailable ones (Kyra is no expert, but she is pretty sure that the books on the front hearth are a fire hazard; though she has never seen a fire in the fireplace, so perhaps it is a moot point).

As they enter the living room Kyra shoves Dorian toward said squashy couch before continuing on to the kitchen (with chrome _everywhere_ and who needs that many kitchen gadgets, anyway? She has yet to see him use any of them beyond the too-complicated-by-far espresso machine). After checking to make sure that the various appliances are all switched off, she goes about filling the largest glass he owns with water. When she returns to the living room Dorian has sprawled along the length of the sofa, head on one armrest and fingers laced together over his eyes. Kyra nudges him enough that he holds out his hand for the water and then moves toward the other end of the couch as he drains the glass. It takes little effort to shove his feet over to make enough room for her to sit down, but as soon as she has settled he drops them right back in her lap. She glares at the intruding feet for a few moments, contemplating making a fuss about it, before she decides that she just doesn’t care enough and tips her head to rest on the back of the couch. The cushions mold around her body until she almost feels that it will swallow her whole. Upon further consideration, she is of the opinion it wouldn’t be the worst way to go.

Dorian pulls her from her ruminations on the subject of death-by-couch. “My apologies for interrupting your date.”

Kyra smiles without opening her eyes, a resigned quirk of her mouth. “Don’t worry about it. And it wasn’t a date.” Not that Kyra would have minded if it _were_ , but...well. Not an option and really it would be better for everyone if she stopped thinking about it.

“Right,” Dorian drawls and she can tell he doesn’t believe her. Asshole. Like he would know.

“She’s straight.”

“Ah.” There is understanding in place of the skepticism now, and sympathy. “My condolences on that, then.”

Kyra shrugs, though she doesn’t know if he can see her. “So it goes. I’ll get over it.” Maybe. If Cassandra can stop being so perfect for two fucking seconds so Kyra can get her bearings.

Dorian makes a soft humming noise, acknowledgment but not necessarily agreement, and they lapse into a comfortable silence. Eventually, Kyra sighs.

“Bullshitting aside, on a scale of one to ten how bad was it today? I don’t need details, just need to know how much fallout to expect.” She doesn’t want to push - she isn’t going to push - but his answer will tell her just how close an eye she needs to keep on him over the next few days.

His noise this time is thoughtful. “With one being ‘ouch, I stubbed my toe’ and ten, ‘I seem to have kick started the apocalypse’? Perhaps a four.”

Kyra mentally translates that to “bad but not devastating” and modifies her plans. Check-in texts every eight hours and one unannounced visit ought to cover it. Anything more and he will feel smothered, anything less and she’ll fret.

“If you’re planning on making it home tonight, I would recommend calling a cab now,” Dorian says, pulling her from her musings. She chuckles.

“Dorian, darling, if you think I’m moving from this spot for the next eight hours you are sorely mistaken. In fact, I may never move again.” She can feel sleep prickling at the edges of her consciousness even as she speaks, the last two hours’ worry and panic having sapped her energy. She kicks off her tennis shoes and props her feet on the coffee table, ignoring Dorian’s indignant huff at the action.

“Fine. But if you snore I reserve the right to kick you in the face,” he warns and by the sound of it she isn’t the only one with no plans to get up. She makes a vague noise of agreement and lets herself drift off, one hand curled over Dorian’s ankle.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got plans tonight, so I'm putting this up a little earlier than usual. I'm sure you're all devastated...

Kyra spends the next three days with her protective instincts stuck on overdrive, constantly fighting the urge to barge into Dorian’s house and demand he tell her what’s wrong and how she can fix it. It is a terrible idea for so many reasons: they Don’t Talk About these things, for one, and for another she has a feeling that even if she knew what was wrong there wouldn’t be anything she could do to fix it. Family problems are tricky and somehow she suspects that just punching Dorian’s father in the face is not the way to solve whatever conflict lies between them, however personally satisfying she might find the act.

Besides, Dorian had seemed fine when he kicked her out the morning after the party, though Kyra knows better than to think that means anything. But there is little she can do other than wait and watch and be there if he needs anything and the ensuing helplessness leaves an itch under her skin that she cannot scratch.

But life does not stop just because she is distracted with her friend's personal drama and one o’clock Wednesday afternoon finds Kyra frantically preparing for the cosmology exam she has the next morning. That is, her books and notes are strewn across her kitchen table while she leans back in a dining room chair and attempts to break her own record for the length of time she can keep her pen balanced vertically on the tip of her chin. It is a perfectly valid study method that has served her well over the course of her academic career. Or so she is trying to convince herself. In truth she simply cannot concentrate, which she finds entirely unsurprising.

When her phone beeps with an incoming text, it is a welcome distraction from her thoughts. For exactly the amount of time it takes her to open the message, that is.

_How is Dorian?_

While she does appreciate the fact that Cassandra thinks to ask (she had checked in on Sunday morning to make sure that they were both all right but had given Kyra space in the intervening days, allowing her to focus on Dorian, and Kyra adores her for it) her timing leaves something to be desired. Kyra has been trying _not_ to think about Dorian. And it was almost starting to work, too. Tossing her pen down onto the table, she taps out a response.

_still ok, as far as i know. wont say what happened but thats not a surprise. thanks again for your help that night by the way. i appreciate it._

_Any time._

Kyra tips her chair back on its back two legs, balancing herself with one foot on the edge of the table.

 _exciting plans for the day?_ she types out, because if the conversation lapses she will have to return to her “studying” and at the moment she cannot think of anything less appealing. The fact that it means spending more time talking to Cassandra is just a bonus (admittedly a very pleasant one). The response arrives so quickly that she suspects she is not the only one seeking distraction.

_I would not call them “exciting,” by any means._

_???_

_Wedding preparations. Neither of the maids of honor live in the area and it has somehow fallen to me to fill in._

Muffled giggles bubble out of Kyra as she reads the text. The mental image of Cassandra surrounded by all the frills and fripperies of a wedding just does not compute, a metaphoric 404 error message flashing through her mind as she attempts to picture it.

_oh dear. now i want to know what l &j had to blackmail you with to get you to agree to that…_

_I do not even understand why I am here. Surely they do not expect me to have an opinion on which shade of turquoise to use for the napkins? I have been subjected to nearly two dozen color swatches in the last hour and they all look identical._

And that just sets Kyra off again, giggling so hard she drops her phone while trying to type out a reply.

_you poor thing. however will you survive?_

_You could always join me._

Kyra's giggles cut off with a single strangled squawk and she stares at her phone screen for a full thirty seconds, certain she has misread the text. She has no idea how to respond to that, doesn’t even know if the offer is serious or a joke. In the end she decides her best bet is just to avoid assuming anything at all.

_on the off chance that youre serious, you should know that i dont have any plans for the afternoon._

Well, other than studying for an exam worth thirty percent of her grade, but it’s not like she was really accomplishing all that much on that front anyway. She chews on her bottom lip, fingers drumming on the tabletop as she waits for Cassandra to reply. It takes longer than usual and Kyra is torn between fearing that she overstepped some boundary and wondering if perhaps Cassandra is as thrown by the conversation as she is.

_It was intended as a threat, not a request. You cannot truly wish to subject yourself to this torture._

Kyra is still trying to figure out what she wants to say to that (her immediate thought of “totally worth it if it means spending time with you” is just as quickly discarded as more revealing than she has any desire to be) when her phone beeps again with another message from Cassandra. She frowns as she opens it.

_Kyra, this is Josephine. Ignore Cassandra’s last message. You simply must join us - Cassandra is no help at all!_

Another message follows on the heels of that one and Kyra marvels at the speed with which Cassandra can type out a text, capitalization and punctuation included.

_I apologize - Leliana and Josephine demanded to know who I was texting so frequently and they managed to get their hands on my phone. Ignore them; they are a pair of interfering busybodies._

Kyra grins helplessly at her phone, her decision made the moment she saw Josephine’s text. After all, it would be churlish of her to refuse with a personal invitation from the brides-to-be. But Cassandra’s opinion matters far more to her than Leliana and Josephine’s and if her presence is truly unwanted then she will not force it upon her.

_look, if you really dont want me there, say the word. promise i wont be bothered. otherwise just send me the damn address already and ill head over._

When the next text contains a street address instead of a polite refusal, Kyra lets out a whoop of delight and scrambles for her shoes, her books abandoned on the table behind her.

 

* * *

 

The address Cassandra had given Kyra leads her to the office of Halewell Events, located within easy walking distance of Kyra’s apartment. She spends the walk fighting off sudden-onset second thoughts - this is a terrible idea, what was she thinking, this is going to be a disaster, she should be studying, she should turn around and go back home. Only the fact that she had told Cassandra she would be there keeps her moving forward, nose tucked into her thick woolen scarf and head bowed against the February wind.

The building in which Halewell Events is located is one of the newer constructions just off the city center, a massive conglomeration of steel and glass that towers over its more unassuming neighbors. Kyra follows Cassandra’s directions through an impersonal lobby and up a flight of stairs to a suite on the third floor, where upon entering she manages only a brief impression of bright lights and greyscale coloring before Cassandra monopolizes her attention.

She sits on a black couch against the wall opposite the front desk, spine straight and shoulders back, but no amount of perfect posture can conceal the utter boredom on her face. At the sound of the door she turns her head, a broad smile blooming on her face as she sees Kyra standing in the doorway, her eyes crinkling at the corners. The sight does funny things to Kyra’s stomach, twisting it into a bundle of knots in a way that she had almost forgotten, and she can’t help her answering smile. She walks over to join Cassandra in what is clearly a waiting area of some kind, waving her back down when she starts to stand to greet her. She flops down on the couch beside Cassandra with a wince (the couch is not as comfortable as it looks, which is impressive considering it looks about as soft as a wooden plank, and the motion sends a twinge through her neck) and curls up facing Cassandra, her feet tucked under her.

Cassandra’s smile fades to a fond resignation as she watches Kyra settle in.

“Comfortable?”

Kyra snorts. “Hello to you, too. And of course not - have you felt this couch? It’s like sitting on a brick. My ass would go numb in seconds.” Cassandra shakes her head but Kyra catches the curl of her lips that she can’t quite suppress and grins in triumph. “So what happened to Josephine and Leliana? Aren’t you supposed to be helping them pick colors or something?”

Cassandra’s mouth purses into what on any other woman Kyra would call a pout. But this is Cassandra and the very idea is ludicrous so she settles on calling it a frown. A very annoyed frown that happens to look a lot like a pout. But still a frown.

“Apparently my attitude was not appropriate for the momentous occasion in which I was participating.”

Of course it was. “Meaning you were dismissive and they kicked you out,” Kyra translates, the words somewhat garbled from the way she is forced to speak them around her snickers. Cassandra glares but does not refute the statement. “It’s their _wedding_. They’re allowed to spend two hours arguing over the proper shape of the napkins.”

“Clamshells. Which I am told are different from standing fans, though I fail to see how.” Cassandra leans forward, bracing her elbows on her knees and clasping her hands in front of her. “And I do not disapprove of their actions - I understand the desire for the perfect wedding and I would gladly lend my assistance in areas for which I am better suited. But this? I cannot tell the difference between off-white and cream and eggshell and my knowledge of napkin folding extends only to those I have seen in restaurants. I do not see what purpose my presence here serves, other than to irritate those around me. And yet Leliana insisted I attend.”

“Because your reactions are amusing.”

Kyra turns toward the source of the voice, gentle and colored with a distinct Orlesian accent, and sees Leliana and Josephine entering the waiting room.

“Kyra,” Josephine greets as Cassandra scowls at Leliana. “It is wonderful to see you again. I have heard much about you these past few weeks and I’ll admit that it makes me regret the fact that I did not have a chance to talk with you more when we first met.”

As Kyra rises to shake the hand that Josephine holds out to her, she prays her horror is not visible on her face.

“I am suddenly afraid of what you’ve heard of me,” she drawls, humor masking her utter terror of the idea that people have apparently been talking about her. Josephine waves off her concern with a brush of her hand, golden rings flashing in the light.

“Not to worry. Dorian and Cassandra were nothing but complimentary.”

And there is such a wealth of information in that simple sentence that Kyra cannot even begin to process it all. Dorian and Josephine have kept in touch. And talk about her. _Cassandra_ talks about her, which is surprising, and is complimentary, which is even more so. Her brain stutters over this last thought and she cannot for the life of her come up with a response.

Cassandra saves her from embarrassing herself. “Have you finished, then?” There is no mistaking the note of hope in the words. Leliana laughs, a sound that reminds Kyra of distant Chantry bells (she feels like she should object to the comparison, her Dalish heritage balking at even the thought of the Chantry, but she cannot think of a more apt descriptor).

“You are not that lucky,” she tells Cassandra, smiling at some secret amusement. “We heard Kyra’s entrance and came out to greet her.”

A flush suffuses Kyra’s cheeks. “You didn’t have to do that,” she protests. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Leliana’s smile sharpens to something almost predatory. “Oh, you’re precious. Don’t worry, we have every intention of putting you to work. We are in desperate need of an outside opinion and Cassandra is no help at all.”

Kyra is starting to get the impression that “mild terror” will be her base state whenever she and Leliana are in the same room. The worst part is that she cannot even pinpoint exactly what makes the woman so intimidating - slender, soft-voiced women are hardly the stuff of nightmares. And yet…

“It makes one wonder why you insisted I come at all,” Cassandra mutters and Kyra huffs out a laugh, more at ease with the reminder of Cassandra’s presence at her side.

“I don’t know how much help I’ll be,” she hedges. “Human weddings are hardly my area of expertise.” But neither Leliana nor Josephine seem to care and when Cassandra catches her eye as they are herded out of the waiting room the “I warned you” comes across just fine even with no words exchanged. Kyra bites her lip on a smile.

“If you are dragging us back in there to stare at more napkins…” Cassandra warns and Josephine laughs, linking her arm through Kyra’s with an easy familiarity that Kyra envies.

“You’ve been spared that indignity,” Leliana assures her from her place beside Cassandra. “And who knows? You might find you like the next decision to be made.”

Cassandra makes a doubtful noise and Kyra concurs. When she had offered to come over she had intended her role to be restricted to moral support - she had not expected to be asked for an _opinion_. How is she supposed to know what is best for the wedding of two near-strangers?

“That assumes that the two of you are capable of even making a decision,” Cassandra says as Josephine leads them through a short, sparsely-decorated hallway. “I have seen no evidence of that today.” Kyra muffles her snicker with a cough and follows Josephine’s pull on her arm into a mid-sized conference room. A large rectangular table dominates the majority of the space and though the table is easily long enough to sit five on a side the only chairs are clustered together at one end. Standing near the table is a short human woman with a head full of elaborate braids who greets Leliana and Josephine with a pleasant smile that shifts into a glare as soon as Cassandra enters the room. Kyra wants to know what happened to earn Cassandra that look: whatever it is that she did to piss the woman off, Kyra is willing to bet it would make a fantastic story.

“Kyra, allow me to introduce Maryden Halewell, our wedding planner,” Josephine says as she leads Kyra farther into the room. Maryden leaves off trying to set Cassandra on fire with her mind for long enough to give Kyra a curt nod. There is a degree of offended hostility lingering in her eyes that leads Kyra to believe that whatever it was that had annoyed her so greatly had somehow involved Kyra. Curious. But she is not given a chance to investigate - Josephine pulls her to the table and there is a moment of quiet shuffling as the four of them take their seats, Leliana and Josephine sharing the head of the table with Cassandra and Kyra on either side. The chairs are placed so close together that Kyra’s feet bump against Cassandra’s and Josephine’s every time she shifts position.

Maryden glides forward to stand at the corner of the table between Josephine and Kyra, who gets the uncomfortable feeling that prior to her arrival her seat had belonged to the wedding planner.

“To assist you in making the next decision,” Maryden begins, “I have taken the liberty of arranging samples from three of the finest bakeries in the area.”

Kyra’s eyebrows rise as she begins to understand what is going on. “Wait,” she interrupts, earning herself another glare from Maryden. “Did you bring me back here to help you pick out a _cake flavor_ ?” Insofar as wedding-centric decisions go, she cannot think of any she would prefer. At least she _has_ opinions on cake flavors. Flower arrangements, not so much. She catches Cassandra’s eye with a smirk. “Remind me to call Dorian after this and tell him that he’s being replaced.” At Cassandra’s inquiring noise, her smirk widens into a grin. “Well, _he’s_ never taken me cake-testing.”

Leliana laughs as Maryden begins to lay out a handful of plates on the table between them. Each one contains a small piece of cake and suddenly the odd arrangement of chairs makes far more sense. Squeezed together as they are, the cake is in easy reach of all four of them.

“Josephine is insistent upon a chocolate cake,” Leliana says in the tone of one confiding a great shame. Next to her Josephine shakes her head but does not interrupt. “I need someone else to help me convince her that chocolate is _not_ an appropriate wedding flavor.”

Kyra glances over at Cassandra. “You wouldn’t help?”

Cassandra shrugs. “It is her wedding. If she wants a chocolate cake she should have a chocolate cake. While I understand the value of tradition, I would think happiness is more important, especially for a wedding.”

“Thank you!” Josephine interjects and Leliana fixes Cassandra with a stare that is more annoyed than Kyra thinks the situation really requires.

“Have any of you _ever_ been to a wedding that serves chocolate cake? It isn’t done!”

“I’ve never been to a human wedding at all,” Kyra points out. “For all I know chocolate cakes are all the rage.”

Leliana’s full lips purse into a frown but Josephine cuts her off before she can continue the argument.

“Oh!” She sits forward in her chair, brown eyes bright. “Are Dalish weddings very different from human ones, then?”

Kyra quirks an amused eyebrow at Josephine. “I wouldn’t know,” she points out.

At the sound of Maryden loudly clearing her throat Kyra stifles anything else she had planned on adding and flushes, turning to look up at Maryden with a sheepish expression more at home on the face of a misbehaving elementary school student than a grown adult.

“If you are all _quite_ finished…” Maryden trails off and though Kyra and Josephine have the grace to look appropriately ashamed of ignoring her neither Leliana nor Cassandra appear at all affected.

When no further interruptions are forthcoming Maryden gives a sniff and starts explaining the different cake samples she has set out. There are, as promised, cakes from three different local bakeries - vanilla, chocolate (to Josephine’s pleasure), “traditional wedding cake” (though Kyra has no idea what that even means), and a “house special” of each bakery’s most popular flavor. Kyra surveys the assortment of confectionery in front of her, overwhelmed, as Josephine immediately (and with a certain degree of relish directed at Leliana) reaches for the nearest slice of chocolate.

This seems to be the signal for everyone to dive in and they spend the next hour debating the relative merits of the different cakes. Josephine, to no one’s great surprise, is stalwart in her defense of one of the chocolate cakes while Leliana champions one of the traditional wedding cakes (though Kyra cannot tell the difference between it and the vanilla from the same bakery) and Cassandra and Kyra join forces in support of  a lemon buttercream cake that one of the bakeries sent as their house special. The argument drags on and those involved show no signs of surrender, the debate growing more and more heated the longer it persists.

Though Kyra suffers the occasional moment of self-consciousness, of a niggling feeling of “I don’t belong here” and a brief hesitation before offering her opinions, uncertain that they will be welcomed, whenever they occur all she has to do is glance over at Cassandra and compare her relaxed smile, the ease in her eyes to her irritation when Kyra had first arrived. She is not egotistical enough to believe that it is entirely a result of her presence - who _wouldn’t_ be in a better mood when sampling delicious cakes? - but if she is responsible for even a fraction of Cassandra’s current contentedness, then she does not begrudge a single moment of discomfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I ended up writing the first scene of this chapter from Cassandra's point of view, as well as Kyra's. ~~I'm planning on posting it as a side story later on tonight (or tomorrow morning, depending on when I have time),~~ [It's posted!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6427330/chapters/14713030) if any of you are interested. Consider it a thank you for sticking around for ten chapters of my nonsense...


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... consider this your friendly authorial WARNING: this chapter is the reason for the grief/mourning tag on this. It deals a whole lot with mourning the loss of a loved one (note that there is *not* a tag for character death, though: anyone who is going to die is already dead so please don't panic) so if that is something that is going to be triggering or upsetting for you, PLEASE skip this chapter. I'll put a brief summary of the important bits at the end so that you don't miss anything.
> 
> Can I apologize in advance for this? I'm gonna apologize in advance...

For the entire week after crashing Leliana and Josephine’s wedding planning session, Kyra spends her every free moment implementing any and all precautionary measures she can come up with in preparation for the coming Thursday. She and Dorian have reached something of a stalemate, with him aggressively pretending that nothing happened and everything is normal and her pretending that she believes him. While on a typical day his actions would be her cue to fret about him, right then she does not have the energy nor the attention to spare from her own problems.

She does not know how the upcoming anniversary is going to affect her - only that it _will_ and that it will be bad - and so in a bid to help assuage her growing panic she concocts contingency plans for every conceivable scenario: she purchases a padlock and uses it to secure her liquor cabinet, handing the key off to a confused Dorian with orders to hold onto it until the next Monday; she contacts her professors to rearrange her lab time and request notes for the class she will miss; she goes through her kitchen and systematically unplugs and disconnects every appliance she owns; she coerces Dorian into giving her twenty four hours of solitude, no calls or texts or random unannounced visits on pain of helping her edit her thesis. (Whatever is going on with him, she will help, she tells herself. After Thursday.)

She becomes practiced at ignoring the part of her mind that insists on pointing out that her preparations are nothing more than a distraction to keep from having to think about the reason behind them. Even if that is true, she cannot see the harm in it. She is _doing_ something instead of just sitting at home surrendering to the grief she can feel scratching away at her sanity. She will allow herself one day to feel and process and mourn, but she cannot afford to be out of commission for any longer than that. There is too much that she needs to do. Which means she has to stay busy, has to keep herself from thinking for as long as possible. Dorian helps with this, dragging her out of her apartment and occupying her with dinner and alcohol and arguments about exegetical literature. But distraction only works for so long and far before she is ready for it the morning of March third dawns, clear and cold, and suddenly there is nowhere left for her to hide.

Though she had set no alarm the night before Kyra wakes early, nightmares stealing any comfort sleep might have brought. She spends her morning on the couch, wrapped in three layers of blankets with _Pride and Prejudice_ playing on a loop on her television and her radio tuned to an oldies station. If she surrounds herself with enough voices then maybe she won’t notice the lack of the one that matters.

It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t work. She still hears his laughter lurking in every corner of her apartment, sees his face in her own reflection on the television screen. The seat beside her is too empty and no cold toes shove up against hers under the blanket. Maybe, she concedes, taking the day off had not been her greatest idea ever. Maybe if she had tried to go about her day as usual she could have pretended that there was nothing special about today, that everything was fine.

Or maybe she would have had an emotional breakdown in the middle of her stat mech class and then everyone in her program would realize what a mess she actually is and then she would never be able to show her face in Skyhold University ever again. Maybe she should just accept the fact that nothing she does, no precautions she takes will ever make any of this easier to bear.

The movie and music drone on in the background but Kyra is lost in her own thoughts, part memory, part guilt, part what-if, when a loud knock sounds at the door. Kyra ignores it: either someone has the wrong address, in which case they’ll figure it out on their own and go away momentarily; or it is Dorian, in which case he swore he would leave her be today and ought to know better than to think she would let him in after that. But after about thirty seconds the knock rings out once more, this time accompanied by a voice that Kyra instantly recognizes, though she cannot fathom what its owner is doing _here_.

“Kyra Lavellan, I know you are in there. You have ten seconds to open this door before I knock it down.”

For the first time in the entirety of their acquaintance Kyra has no desire to see Cassandra. While there is a moment where she considers not answering the door, Cassandra’s inevitable ire be damned, the realization that she would follow through on her threat without hesitation gets Kyra to pause the movie and slide off the couch, though she keeps the blankets bundled up around her, trailing on the floor like the train of a ballgown. She flips the bolt on the door and pulls it open just wide enough to see Cassandra standing in the hall, her face a thunderstorm.

“What are you doing here, Cassandra?” she asks, resting her cheek on the wooden doorframe. Cassandra is silent as she sweeps her gaze over Kyra, lingering on the tangled nest of her hair, the shadows in her eyes, and the blankets around her shoulders.

“I - may I come in?” The ferocity in her voice has vanished as the stormclouds in her face fade into concern. Kyra does not know what she looks like - she has been avoiding mirrors as much as possible all day, for more than one reason - but judging by Cassandra’s reaction it isn’t good. She sighs as she steps away from the door.

“Like I could stop you.”

Cassandra frowns at her words but Kyra cannot bring herself to care. She makes her way back to the couch and drops down onto it, tucking her legs under her and wrapping her blankets tighter around herself until only her head pokes out of their protective cocoon. She watches Cassandra look around her apartment, notices the flicker of distaste a she catches sight of the television screen, frozen on a close-up of Charlotte Lucas’s face. Though Kyra braces herself for the impending criticism of her movie choice, when it comes it is not at all what she was expecting.

“Of all the film adaptations that exist for this book, _this_ is the one you choose? There are others that are far truer to the source material.”

Kyra stares at her in silence for a long moment, a slow flush crawling up Cassandra’s cheeks as she realizes what she just revealed.

“Pretend you did not hear me say that,” she orders and Kyra snorts.

“The other versions don’t have Keira Knightley’s collarbones,” is all she says in response, shrugging in a way that makes the fringed edge of one of her blankets brush her ear. “Ergo, I watch this one.”  She sighs as Cassandra sits on the couch beside her, attention now focused on Kyra instead of the TV. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

Cassandra frowns at her, concerned little furrows forming between her eyebrows. “Kyra, it is nearly six thirty,” she says and then it is Kyra’s turn to frown. That can’t be right, can it? How long has she been sitting here? She shakes her head to clear it. It doesn’t matter one way or the other, not really. And there are bigger concerns to deal with now, anyway.

“Then what are you doing _here_?”

Cassandra shifts in her seat, eyes darting away from Kyra. “Dorian called me to ask if I would come check on you,” she says and Kyra wants to swear. Of course he did, the meddling asshole. In retrospect asking him to leave her alone after all the other shit they have gone through over the last few weeks was probably not her cleverest move ever. But she does not appreciate the fact that he got around his promise by dragging Cassandra into the middle of this - it’s a low blow and there is no way he does not know it.

“Did he say why?” she asks and Cassandra shakes her head.

“Only that he was concerned about you and that a promise kept him from coming himself. Now that I’m here I can understand his concern. What is wrong?”

Kyra opens her mouth to spout off some rote answer - “It’s nothing, I’m fine” - but something stops her before the words can escape. She tilts her head to the side, teeth digging into her lower lip and eyes locked on Cassandra’s in a silent contest of wills. She cannot believe she is even considering this. She has known this woman all of three weeks. This is ridiculous. And yet she cannot deny the fact that for the first time since it happened she actually feels like talking about it. Maybe it’s the anniversary. Maybe it’s the earnest concern in Cassandra’s eyes. Maybe it’s the common-sense-destroying effect Cassandra has on her. Maybe she’s just sick of keeping quiet. Whatever the reason, she finds herself tempted, more than she has ever been.

After several long, tense moments, Kyra breaks the silence.

“Ah, fuck it.” With no further explanation she rises to her feet, her blanket nest crumpling to the floor around her. She motions for Cassandra to stay put before disappearing into the hallway to rummage around in her bedroom. It does not take her long to find what she seeks (and why should it? She has not touched it since the day she moved in) and she returns to the living room with her prize clutched in white-knuckled hands.

She thrusts it at Cassandra without a word as she drops back onto the couch, steadfastly avoiding curious hazel eyes. Cassandra takes the frame with calloused hands far gentler than Kyra’s own had been and those eyes fly wide when she sees the photograph enclosed within.

“Is this…?” she trails off, one long finger tracing the edges of the picture frame. Kyra risks a glance over to see Cassandra spellbound by the still figures within; two near identical faces, with the same dancing brown eyes, the same wicked grins, the same vallaslin tracing the same cheekbones.

“My brother, Rion.” Her throat locks up as the name escapes her for the first time in a year. “Twin brother,” she forces out past the lump in her throat and Cassandra turns away from the photograph, setting it on the coffee table and fixing Kyra with a look that is equal parts curious and concerned. She cannot miss Kyra’s distress but she does not comment on it, just reaches out to rest one warm hand on Kyra’s shoulder.

“I did not know you had a brother,” she says, voice quiet, guiding the conversation without demanding an explanation. Kyra spares a moment to wonder what she is like in the interrogation room. Nowhere near as careful, she suspects, and is grateful for the difference.

“He died,” she replies, voice stripped of emotion. It is the only way she will be able to get through this, to say what she needs to say, without breaking down halfway through. “A year ago today. There was -” She stops, swallows. Apparently “emotionless” isn’t going to be as easy as she had hoped. Cassandra’s hand tightens on her shoulder and Kyra reaches up to cover it with her own, closing her eyes and drawing strength from the touch. “We were making dinner and he - I still don’t know what happened. But there was a fire. An explosion, really. The report said something about a gas line, I don’t know. I didn’t really read it. Couldn’t. I don’t even remember what happened after the first blast. I remember heat and choking on smoke and then...nothing.

“I woke up a while later on the ambulance on the way to the the hospital. They tell me I was screaming for him. But…” She squeezes her eyes shut, fighting off the memories, fingers so tight around Cassandra’s hand that it has to be painful but no word of complaint leaves her lips. “The doctors said he died in the first few moments, that by all rights I should have, too. They called my survival a _miracle_.” She laughs, hollow and bitter, and lets go of Cassandra to reach down and tug off her leather glove. She hears the quick inhale that Cassandra can’t quite suppress at the sight of her hand, the skin of her left palm warped and twisted, pulled too tight where the flames had touched her skin. “Should have died and all I have to show for it is a scar and a dead brother.” She chokes on the words as Cassandra’s hand slides down from her shoulder to the curve of her left wrist, just below where the edge of her glove should be. With a pause to look over at Kyra, a silent request for permission that is granted with a shaky nod, she traces the tips of her fingers along the raised ridges of the scar. It is the first time since the fire that someone other than a doctor has touched her bare hand and the gentle, feather-light brush of fingers along skin sends shivers skittering down Kyra’s spine. Not from arousal - she doesn’t think she could be turned on right now if she tried - but just the simple intimacy of the action.

Cassandra’s touch trails along Kyra’s hand until she can twine their fingers together, covering the marked skin with her own. Kyra wraps her fingers around Cassandra’s in turn, holding tight as the motion pulls at her scarred palm. “A miracle. I never did believe them. It’d be a pretty shitty sort of miracle, wouldn’t it, leaving half of me to die?”

Cassandra watches her with eyes softer than Kyra has ever seen them. “I know it is no comfort and I doubt it is what you wish to hear,” she begins and Kyra takes comfort in the halting way she speaks. It is good to know she is not the only one having trouble with this conversation. “But for what it is worth, miracle or no I am thankful you survived. My life would be the lesser for your absence, and I am certain Dorian would say the same.”

Kyra manages a watery smile and a murmur of “thanks” before leaning over to rest her head on Cassandra’s shoulder, forehead pressed into the soft fabric of her shirt. Cassandra is warm and smells of something surprisingly floral and Kyra takes a moment just to breathe, to take what comfort she can from the contact. “Fuck. I really thought I was getting better, you know?” she murmurs, voice muffled by Cassandra’s arm. “Meeting Dorian, meeting you. But I was just fooling myself, wasn’t I? It hurts every bit as much now as it did then.”

“You are not fooling yourself.” Cassandra says, the certainty in her voice catching Kyra’s attention. She twists her neck enough to see the profile of Cassandra’s face without lifting her head from where it rests on her shoulder and the confused curl of her lips draws a sigh from Cassandra. “It will always hurt. They will try to tell you otherwise, but they are lying. It will always hurt. You will always miss him. Twenty years from now you will still have days where you cannot breathe for missing him. It is not a matter of healing; it is a matter of adapting. You learn to live with the pain until it becomes part of you, until its presence is no longer overwhelming and you can think of him and remember his life as easily as you do his death.”

Kyra chews on the inside of her cheek as she considers whether or not to speak the words on the tip of her tongue. She is curious, desperately so, but habits are hard to break and “not poking her nose into other people's’ personal lives for fear of them doing the same to her” has become so ingrained into her psyche that even now with her secrets spilled into the space between them she shies away from pressing too far.

But this is Cassandra and Kyra knows that the worst she will do is say she does not want to discuss it and that will be that. So she darts her tongue out to wet dry lips and asks. “Why does that sound like experience talking?”

Cassandra sighs, her thumb tracing absent patterns on the back of Kyra’s hand in a nervous gesture that Kyra doubts she even realizes she is making.

“My brother, Anthony, was killed when I was twelve. He was taking me out for ice cream when we were accosted by a group of thugs looking for an easy mark. Anthony stood up to them and they shot him in front of me.”

“I...shit,” is all Kyra can say in response. For all that the pain in Cassandra’s voice resonates with that with which Kyra has been living for the last year, for all that she now knows how difficult it is to speak of such things, she cannot quite regret asking. She takes this piece of Cassandra that has been revealed and tucks it away with the rest of the odds and ends she has collected over the weeks in the little box in her heart labelled “Detective Cassandra Pentaghast,” hoarding it away like a dragon with its gold.

Cassandra snorts in response to her comment. “Indeed.”

Kyra uses her free hand to tug her blankets up over her shoulder with a thoughtful hum. “Ain’t we a pair?” she murmurs, drawing a low rumble of a laugh from Cassandra. She feels a brief press of warmth as Cassandra rests her cheek against the top of Kyra’s head.

“How are you feeling?” she asks into her hair and Kyra shrugs, shoulder bumping into Cassandra’s bicep.

“I’ve been better,” she drawls and though she cannot see it she suspects Cassandra rolls her eyes.

“I am serious. Losing someone is difficult and I have seen grief drive people to many things. I need to know if I should be concerned.”

Kyra knows what she is truly asking - the same question had been on everyone’s lips in the days after the fire, though they had couched the words in metaphor and vague allusions. She finds she much prefers Cassandra’s bluntness and answers in kind.

“Every part of me hurts and at the moment it feels like I’ll never be able to laugh without feeling guilty,” she admits in the interest of brutal honesty. “But no, I’m not suicidal.”

She feels Cassandra nod and they sit in silence for long moments, Kyra with her eyes closed and matching her breaths to the steady rise and fall of Cassandra’s chest. The easy rhythm soothes the rough edges of her nerves, helps calm her pounding heart. When she focuses on breathing, on the rush of air into her lungs, on deep, slow breaths, she cannot also think about other things - fire or loss or pain.

But she cannot remain tucked into Cassandra’s side forever, no matter how comfortable or safe it feels. With a yawn so wide the hinges of her jaw pop, Kyra disentangles her hand from Cassandra’s and rises to her feet, arching her back to work the kinks out of her spine. Cassandra watches her with a raised eyebrow.

“Something wrong?” she asks but Kyra waves off her concern and pads into the kitchen, bare feet whispering across the linoleum. She grabs a plastic folder from the counter near the stove, pausing only to check that all the dials on the stove are switched off - yes, she unplugged it the day before but checking has become a nervous habit she will likely never break - before returning to the living room and Cassandra. Dropping the folder onto the coffee table next to the picture frame, she reclaims her vacated seat.

Cassandra’s eyes flick from the folder to Kyra’s face, little lines forming in the space between her brows. She plucks the folder from the table and the lines deepen as she flips through it to find an assortment of take-out menus. She looks over to where Kyra has once more ensconced herself in her blanket nest and Kyra shrugs.

“I’m hungry and if you think I’m cooking anything in the foreseeable future you are not nearly as clever as I thought you were. And since I have every intention of using you as a pillow for as long as you’ll let me, I figured it’d only be polite to bribe you to stick around with food.”

She keeps it light: no need to mention that she finds the idea of being left alone mildly terrifying, that she hasn’t eaten all day and until Cassandra had arrived even the thought of food had turned her stomach, that everything seems less awful with Cassandra around, that she makes the ache of her loss easier to bear just by being there. There is such a thing as oversharing.

Cassandra gives a low laugh and looks through the menus more closely this time, settling on a Rivaini delivery place about a block away from the apartment. They hash out their order but before Kyra can call it in Cassandra lays a long-fingered hand on her arm. Her eyes when they meet Kyra’s are earnest, her voice soft.

“If you would rather I leave you in peace, you need only say so. I do not wish to impose if you would rather be alone.”

The corner of Kyra’s mouth quirks in a crooked half-smile, more form than function. “Cassandra,” she says, “solitude is exactly the _last_ thing I need right now. Besides, like I said, I fully intend on commandeering your shoulder as my personal head rest until you get annoyed enough to shove me off. You’re welcome here for as long as you like.” That said, she picks up the scrap of paper containing their order and flails around for her cell phone for a few moments before she remembers that she left it in her bedroom in order to avoid any calls or texts she might receive. Cassandra passes her own phone over before Kyra has a chance to go chasing after hers and Kyra takes it with a quiet “thank you.” As she taps in the number of the restaurant she gestures toward the television with the hand not holding the phone. “I’ll even be magnanimous and _not_ make you suffer through a movie you clearly dislike. You’ve got free reign over my movie collection, though if you choose something about siblings I will murder you in your sleep, cop or no.”

Cassandra snorts and rises to inspect the shelf of movies and tv boxed sets. “Noted,” she replies and Kyra flashes a smirk. Then her call connects and her attention is diverted from observing Cassandra’s search to placing their order.

Maybe she’ll be able to make it through this day, after all.

 

* * *

 

Kyra falls asleep at some point between cleaning up the remains of their dinner and the end of the movie, her head tucked into the curve of Cassandra’s neck and Cassandra’s arm wrapped around her waist. She stirs only briefly when she feels Cassandra shift beside her, letting out a plaintive murmur without truly waking up. There is the sleep-fogged sensation of being carried, strong arms around her back and under her knees, then the softness of her pillow beneath her cheek. When she wakes the next morning, in bed alone in her empty apartment, she has no recollection of how she got there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Summary** of the chapter, for those of you who are not comfortable reading it (note that I made no promises regarding the quality of the summary, only that there would be one...):
> 
> In essence, it is the anniversary of the death of Kyra's twin brother Rion, who died in a gas line explosion in their shared home a year ago. The explosion also left her with a pretty severe scar on her left palm. Her behavior leading up to the date worries Dorian but since she coerced a promise to leave her alone for twenty four hours he cannot check on her himself. He contacts Cassandra instead and asks her to look in on Kyra for him. Cassandra gets Kyra to talk about it and stays to keep her company for the evening.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys guys guys guys guys! [@birdcrimes](http://birdcrimes.tumblr.com) drew [ART](http://birdcrimes.tumblr.com/post/142817913515/lmao-ive-been-rly-into-this-fic-by) for this fic and it is fantastic! You should all go check it out and see the how adorable these dorks are!

Kyra and Cassandra’s relationship shifts after that, settles into something solid and steady, though it takes some time for Kyra to notice the change, distracted as she is with her fumbling attempts to pick up the threads of her normal routine and trying to pretend once more that everything is all right.

That pretense of normality does not last beyond the first day. When Kyra dismisses her lab students the next afternoon, Sera and Dagna linger behind instead of joining their classmates’ escape to the freedom of the weekend. As Kyra packs away her notes, Sera plops down on the middle of her desk, arms crossed over her chest while Dagna hovers beside her.

“So, Teach, what’s the deal?” Sera demands, smacking her chewing gum between words. Chewing gum that Kyra is quite certain she has banned from the lab on more than one occasion, though clearly that has had little effect on her most troublesome student. She sighs and rubs the bridge of her nose with the tips of her fingers.

“What are you talking about, Sera?” Honestly, she does not have the energy to deal with this right now; all she wants to do is go home and take a nap before she is due to meet Dorian for their traditional Friday night get-together (a meeting she has been dreading since her discovery that he was so concerned about her the day before that he felt the need to get Cassandra involved and a nap she has no time for if she intends to make up the lab time she lost by taking yesterday off).

“You’ve been walking around like a friggin’ Disney princess for weeks now, all smiley and glowy, yeah? Then all of a sudden you show up today like someone went and pissed in your cornflakes. You and Cassie split up or something? Does this mean you’re not coming to her class anymore?”

Kyra opens and closes her mouth several times, trying to figure out how she is supposed to respond to that. There are just... so many things wrong with that question. Starting from the fact that it came from one of her students.

Dagna sighs and steps between Kyra and Sera, though as she stands only about six or so inches over the top of the desk the action does little to disrupt the bemused frown Kyra has fixed on Sera. But Kyra’s attention drops to her anyway, watching the way she twists her fingers together as though she cannot bear to keep still.

“What she means is that you’ve kinda grown on us recently, you know? And you’re looking so down that we wanted to know if you wanted to talk about it. To us. Or maybe someone else? It doesn’t have to be us.”

Kyra cannot help but smile at the earnest grey eyes staring up at her. “I appreciate the concern,” she assures them both, “but I’m fine. Just a bit stressed.”

Sera makes a noise not unlike the air escaping a deflating balloon. “That’s bollocks, innit?” she says, kicking her legs back and forth and narrowly missing Kyra’s thighs with each swing. “You’re not stressed-sad, you’re sad-sad. Stressed-sad is more _grr, fuckoff_.” She makes little hand gestures to accompany her description, holding her hands by her mouth with her index and middle fingers curled like she is about to make air quotes and thrusting them toward Kyra’s face with each word. Kyra bats the hands away with a frown but Sera isn’t done talking. “You’re more of an _oh, woe is me, I had a fight with my ladyfriend and I’m gonna pout about it_ kinda sad.”

“I don’t have a ladyfriend,” Kyra replies, because clearly that is the important part of that entire conversation. Sera perks up at the words.

“Is _that_ the problem, then? ‘Cause Widdle and I have some friends we could -”

“No.” Kyra cuts her off before she can get any further into her sentence. “Absolutely not. No.” She drops into her chair with a groan, burying her face in her hands. “ _Mythal’enaste_ , why is this so important to you?”

Sera shrugs and uses an unwound paperclip she plucks off the desk to pick at her cuticles. “Thought you and Cassie got into it - I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? You get all floaty soon as you start showing up at her class like her new best friend and now all of a sudden you’re back to gloom’n’doom. Why wouldn’t I think they’re connected? And if you’re on the outs with her then maybe you stop showing up to class and then I’m out a partner.”

“And what a tragic loss that would be for you,” Kyra drawls, earning herself another shrug.

“You don’t get all pissy when I knock you down and you don’t treat me like I’m stupid even though we kept messing with your labs. And you’re not too elfy, even though you’ve got your funny facepaint stuff. Could do worse for a partner, you know.”

“Besides,” Dagna chimes in, “like I said, we kinda like you. And Detective Pentaghast clearly does, too. Class is better with you there. I mean, not that it wasn’t fun before, but… oh, you know what I mean.”

Kyra sighs and kicks her feet up onto the desk next to Sera’s hip, abandoning all pretense of professionalism. Had that been her goal she would have kicked Sera and Dagna out of the room as soon as they started talking.

“Look, everything is fine and I have every intention of showing up tomorrow as usual,” she tells them, trying to inject her words with a degree of assurance and confidence she does not actually feel. “I’m just dealing with some... let’s go with _personal stuff_ that has nothing to do with my love life - or lack thereof. And I cannot believe I am having this conversation with my students; this is ridiculous. But you can stop worrying, I’m sure I’ll be back to - what did you call me? _Glowy?_ \- in a few days.” She refuses to comment on Sera’s remarks about Cassandra. That is one can of worms she has no intention of opening, especially not with Sera and Dagna. Or anyone. Ever. Please, Creators. She just wants to go one fucking day without the woman monopolizing her thoughts.

...Though that day is not going to be today, it seems. Typical, really.

Sera stares at her for a while and Kyra matches her gaze, though she has no idea what thoughts are spinning through the girl’s head. Eventually Sera nods and hops off the desk to land lightly on the balls of her feet.

“Right. Fair enough, then - I'm gonna hold you to that. 'Til then, Widdle and I are gonna go over to the Union for food. You wanna come?”

Kyra blinks several times in rapid succession, taken aback by both the abrupt subject change and the offer. Her first thought is that surely Sera is joking - who invites their teacher to lunch? - but with one look at the impatient curl of her lips and Dagna’s hopeful grin she knows that they mean it.

“I - thank you,” she says, immediately cursing herself for the brief stutter. “I can’t - I’m due for my own lab time in twenty minutes - but I appreciate the offer.”

Sera shrugs. “Your loss,” she mutters before grabbing Dagna’s hand and all but dragging her out the lab door, the dwarf stumbling to keep up with her girlfriend’s much longer stride. Kyra huffs out a laugh as she listens to the clatter of their footsteps dashing down the hall. She makes it halfway out the door herself, intent on dropping her bag in her office before heading to her lab, when someone steps in front of her and blocks her passage.

She tilts her head back - and damn it, why are humans so fucking tall? She never felt this short with her clan - to see Leliana watching her with a sort of casual interest that does not fool Kyra for a second. This is no accidental meeting. Of course it isn’t: Kyra is not nearly that lucky.

“Leliana,” she greets, hating the hesitance in her voice even as she hears it. But she cannot fathom what Leliana is doing here, what business she could possibly have with Kyra, and that uncertainty causes little tendrils of anxiety to seize control of her vocal chords. “Can I help you?”

Leliana considers her, full lips pursed into an unimpressed frown and an expression that could have been carved from marble for all the life it shows. “That remains to be seen. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”

Dread curls in Kyra’s gut but she steps back into the lab and ushers Leliana inside. For a half second she toys with leading her to her office instead, but discards the idea even as it occurs to her. That is _her_ place - she does not want to taint it with what could prove to be an incredibly uncomfortable interaction. The door _snicks_ as Kyra pulls it closed and she stands there for a too-long moment, staring at the door and refusing to turn around as though not looking at Leliana will somehow cause her to vanish into thin air, saving Kyra from whatever it was that brought her here in the first place.

But much to her dismay the universe does not work like that and when she convinces herself to face the room Leliana is still there, standing straight-backed and stone-faced in the aisle between the lab benches, arms folded across her chest. Kyra sighs and walks over to where she can prop herself up against the front of her desk, palms pressing against the desk’s edge, and waits. Leliana is the one who showed up out of nowhere for some sort of Important Discussion; Leliana can be the one to start it.

“What are your intentions toward Cassandra?” Leliana asks after a long moment of silence, a wordless battle of wills to determine who would break it. Kyra is torn between a distressing degree of triumph at her apparent victory and an even greater degree of complete confusion.

“Wait, what?” She frowns and tilts her head as though looking at Leliana from a different angle will cause her words to suddenly make sense. “You really don’t waste time with small talk, do you? My _intentions?_ I... don’t have any? Nothing sinister or secret, at least. She’s my friend? I really don’t know what answer you’re looking for here.”

Ice blue eyes narrow and Kyra is left with the feeling that this is _not_ the response Leliana wanted to hear. Too bad. If she wanted a particular answer then she should have asked a better question. Kyra allows the thought to strengthen knees that threaten to tremble at the disapproval in Leliana’s eyes.

“You’re in love with her,” Leliana says in a tone that suffers no argument. Kyra blinks. So much for not opening _that_ can of worms...

“Um, _no_.” And apparently the urgent need to correct People Who Are Wrong trumps her anxiety. She suddenly finds it much less nerve-wracking to stand her ground, both metaphorically and literally, and straightens out of her slouch, lifting her chin and meeting Leliana’s gaze head-on. “I have a crush on her. Those are entirely different concepts. I wouldn’t mind dating her; I’m not planning out a house and kids.”

Though come to think of it, Cassandra’s kids would be the most adorable little shits on the face of the -

NO. She drags that train of thought to a halt. What the _fuck_ is wrong with her today? She gives herself a shake and forces herself to focus on Leliana, who (thank the Creators) does not seem inclined to comment on her momentary distraction.

“And you’re telling me that you have no intentions, despite your emotions?”

Kyra shrugs, feigning nonchalance as best she can on the heels of that last thought. “No? She’s not interested? I mean, not that it’s any of your business. If Cassandra isn’t bothered by it I don’t see why you should be.”

Leliana’s frown deepens and the tiniest of lines form in the pale skin between her eyebrows, the first true expression of emotion she has shown throughout their entire conversation. “Cassandra knows?” she asks, sounding almost surprised. Kyra blinks.

“Er, yes?” At this point Kyra is about to give up on this entire conversation, too lost in a quagmire of confusion to even attempt to follow Leliana’s thought process. “Since, like, the beginning? Though still not seeing how it’s any business of yours.”

“She is my friend.” The words come out huffy and a little petulant and Kyra suspects that she is not the only one for whom this conversation is not going quite as expected.

“She’s mine, too.” Then Kyra pauses, piecing together the things Leliana has said, and comprehension dawns. “Oh. This is the shovel talk. You’re giving me the shovel talk.” At least, that’s what she thinks Leliana is trying to do. If so, it is not going very well. For either of them. “I’ve never gotten the shovel talk before.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The shovel talk. You know, ‘if you hurt my friend I have a shovel and five acres of land and they’ll never find your body’?”

Leliana nods, understanding and agreement both. “Ah. I suppose it is, in a way. Cassandra is a very dear friend and while I like you well enough, do not underestimate what I will do to you if you hurt her.”

Kyra snorts, picking up a pencil from the top of the desk and twirling it between her fingers. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure you’ll have to get in line, should that happen. Somehow I don’t see Cassandra having any trouble kicking my ass herself should she feel it necessary.”

“Perhaps, but just because she can does not mean she should have to.”

Looking up from the pencil in her hands and meeting Leliana’s eyes, Kyra arches a single eyebrow. “And Cassandra is okay with you running around threatening her friends?” she asks, voice light. “Because that doesn’t really sound like the Cassandra I know. Or does she not know?” There is the slightest of twitches in Leliana’s face, a guilty flinch that would have been all but unnoticeable had Kyra not been looking for it, and she knows she has hit upon the truth. She sighs, the expected pride in catching out a secret never emerging. Instead she is just tired and ready to be done with this entire conversation.

“Look,” she says, laying her pencil back down on the desk and rubbing both hands over her eyes. “Far be it from me to give anyone crap for trying to protect their friends, but going behind their backs to do it? Never ends well. If you have a problem with Cassandra and I being friends, I’d suggest you take it up with her. I'm sticking with her until she tells me otherwise. ‘Cause honestly? You may be fucking terrifying but I like her a whole hell of a lot more than I fear you.”

Leliana watches her with a wondering sort of stare and Kyra feels uncomfortably like a pet who has just performed a new and unexpected trick. A slow smile crawls across Leliana’s lips and she inclines her head in a respectful nod.

“You are not quite what I was expecting, Kyra Lavellan,” she says and Kyra prays she is not imagining the curl of approval in that soft voice. Even aside from sheer self-preservation instincts that scream at her not to make an enemy of this woman, her life will be immeasurably easier if she can manage to refrain from alienating Cassandra’s friends.

“I’m shy and likely have some sort of undiagnosed social anxiety disorder,” Kyra snaps, wishing desperately that this were the first time she has had to have this conversation. “That makes me neither an idiot nor a doormat. If that’s what you came here expecting then yeah, of course you’re going to be disappointed.”

“Disappointed?” Leliana murmurs, almost absently, and Kyra gets the feeling that she is not really talking to her anymore. “No, not disappointed. Pleased, perhaps.”

Kyra gives a slow nod, wide-eyed and befuddled. Leliana, she decides, in addition to being one of the most terrifying people on the planet, is also fucking strange.

“Look,” she says, raking a hand through her curls. “For what it’s worth and only because I understand where you’re coming from - don’t take this as any degree of approval for your methods - but I have no intention of hurting her. That’s the exact opposite of my intention, really. I can’t promise I won’t do something stupid” - like push Cassandra up against the nearest wall and kiss the breath out of her, but that probably falls on the list of “Things Kyra Shouldn’t Say Out Loud” - “and hurt her on accident, but as far as intentions go I pretty much just want to be her friend and for her to be happy. And not necessarily in that order.”

Her impromptu speech is somewhat more honest than she had planned for it to be but it does seem to soothe some of Leliana’s ruffled feathers. Her eyes soften and when she speaks, for the first time since they met there is no hint of judgment in her voice.

“I think I am beginning to realize that.” She takes a step forward and holds out her hand. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, Miss Lavellan,” she says, as though this had been a business meeting instead of some sort of strange cross-examination. (Or whatever it was intended to be - Kyra is still not quite sure. It was meant as more than just a threat, otherwise Leliana’s reaction to her answer would have been very different, but she has no idea what _more_ entails here.)

Kyra takes the proffered hand, bracing herself against her instinctive flinch at the feeling of someone else’s touch. “Kyra,” she corrects as she releases Leliana’s hand as soon as possible without being rude.

“Kyra, then.” Leliana brushes her palms along the lines of her tailored business suit, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. Her heels click against the tiled floor as she starts toward the door of the lab, but she pauses with one hand on the doorknob. She turns her head just enough to grace Kyra with a curious stare.

“I do have one more question, if you will indulge me.” Kyra waves her hand in a vague “go ahead” gesture and Leliana purses her lips on a frown. “By your own words you find me intimidating. But not Cassandra?”

And Kyra can understand the confusion lurking behind the question, though she is not quite sure how to answer it. At least, not in any way that makes sense. She shrugs and attempts to explain as best she can.

“Cassandra’s strong and she’s brusque and yeah, that sort of thing can be intimidating.” And also annoyingly attractive, but that is another entry on the list of things she probably should not say. “But if she’s upset at me for some reason she’s also the kind of person to tell me as much to my face. You? I’m pretty sure you’d be all smiles while secretly planning the best way to ruin me without my suspecting a damn thing. And forgive me for finding that idea a little terrifying.”

Leliana’s only response is a musical laugh that is in no way comforting before she opens the door and lets herself out, leaving Kyra standing alone in the lab trying to figure out what the hell just happened. But the alarm blaring on her phone pulls her from her musings and she curses as she realizes that she was supposed to be on the other side of the building about thirty seconds ago and she still needs to swing by her office to grab her notes. All thoughts of Leliana and even Cassandra are chased from her head as she tears off down the hall, propriety forgone in favor of haste.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So fair warning: from here on out (or at least for as far as I've written) I seem to have lost all control over chapter length. They're all over the place with no apparent rhyme or reason (though I have thus far managed to keep them from getting any shorter...).
> 
> Also, for those of you who were curious about Josephine's reaction to Leliana's "talk" with Kyra last chapter, you should know ~~I have it written and am in the process of editing it. It will get it posted...at some point. I swear. I'll keep you updated~~ it is finished and posted! You should be able to find it [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6427330/chapters/15151846).

“I hate you. I hate you so much that I am going to compose epic poetry expounding upon the depths of my hatred. Centuries from now bards will recite it and their audiences will ask ‘who was this Dorian Pavus?’ and the bard will reply ‘I don’t know, but he was surely a monster of a man to have inspired such hatred in even his dearest of friends!’”

“I see. And here I thought bards had all fallen out of fashion some time ago.”

Kyra grumbles and huddles closer to Dorian’s side, burrowing into his coat to leech body heat like some kind of warmth vampire. “There will be a sudden resurgence just because of my poetry. It will instigate a cultural revolution as people make it their mission in life to spread the tale of ‘That Asshole Dorian Pavus’ far and wide.”

Dorian huffs out a laugh and tightens his arm around her waist. The cold is making him just as miserable as it is her, she knows, but since this entire excursion was _his_ idea he refuses to admit to it.

“Who even holds a carnival in the mountains in March, anyway?” she demands, fighting back a shiver. “Who says ‘ah, yes, barely-above-freezing temperatures and early sunsets, this is clearly the opportune time to open the local fairgrounds’?”

“It seems to be paying off for whomever it was,” Dorian replies as he casts his gaze across the crowded area. “I do believe the entire town has shown up to the event.”

He does have a point, she must admit. It feels like they cannot go five feet without running into someone they know (those interactions always seem to last longer when the person in question is someone Dorian knows, rather than someone Kyra does: he will actually pause to exchange pleasantries - and in one memorable case, insults shouted across the field - while she manages little more than an awkward nod before moving on). Even Sera and Dagna had made an appearance just after she and Dorian had arrived, trailed by a man with a truly impressive beard introduced as Blackwall (by Dagna, that is: Sera had called him “Beardy” which, while entertaining, had not been helpful). The entire interaction lasted only long enough for the somewhat-stilted introductions and for Sera to call Dorian “prissy pants” before she and Dagna shot off to parts unknown, Blackwall following after a gruff but sincere farewell.

“Just because _they_ are all out here freezing to death in pursuit of cotton candy and ferris wheels doesn’t mean we have to be,” she mutters as they wander around the park with no real destination in mind. “We could have gone to the Herald’s Rest, where we would be warm. _Why_ aren’t we at the Rest?”

Dorian raises an eyebrow and holds up a single silver key as if in answer. Kyra blanches when she recognizes the key she had given him earlier in the week, the one that opens the liquor cabinet she had locked for fear of the decisions she might make while wracked with grief.

“Ah.”

Dorian tucks the key back into a pocket with a casual shrug. “You asked me to hold on to it until Monday. It’s not Monday yet and if you’re concerned about being around alcohol for whatever reason then I am certainly not taking you to a bar. I am an enabler only when it does not go counter to your wishes.”

With a heavy sigh Kyra tilts her head to rest against Dorian’s shoulder. “You’re a pain in the ass, _lethallin_ , but I do adore you.” The endearment trips off her tongue with hardly a hesitation, conscious, repeated use dulling the sharp edges of the memories it contains. Maybe someday she’ll have her language back, will recover some of what grief has stolen from her.

No, she corrects, someday she _will_ get it back, no matter what, even if she has to fight for it word by painful word. She will not lose this, as well.

There is a brief press of warmth as Dorian leans his cheek against the top of her head. “That is because I am fantastic, my dear. Obviously.”

Kyra huffs out a breath of a laugh and pulls away enough to look him in the eye, chewing on her bottom lip as she tries to scrape together the nerve to say what she needs to say. “Don’t freak out, okay? But I think... I think we need to talk.”

Before meeting Dorian she had never had cause to consider the expressiveness of facial hair; now she reads his sudden worry in the twitch of his moustache before she ever sees the curve of his frown. “Well, that sounds decidedly ominous.”

She shakes her head, though she is not entirely convinced he is wrong. “No, it’s not... I need to tell you something. Not here: this isn’t the place and I don’t want to get in the way of enjoying the evening. Later, once we get home.”

Dorian nods but the concern lingers in his eyes, a weighty look that tells her that he is unconvinced by her attempted reassurance. She can’t say she blames him. “All right,” he agrees, “but I’m holding you to that.”

“I figured as much.” She loops her arm through his and forcibly shakes off the somber mood. “But I don’t want to think about it right now. Entertain me!”

Dorian chuckles, sweeping into a flourishing bow before pulling her through the crowd. “As my lady commands. I think you said something about cotton candy?”

Kyra laughs and allows herself to be lead off in search of spun sugar. In all honesty, despite her complaints she is not truly irritated with their current situation - yes, it is miserably cold and there are a distressing number of people milling around, but the carnival itself is actually a nice change of pace. And as far as distractions from her own troubles go, it is more effective than she would have expected.

They manage to track down a cotton candy vendor and proceed to spend the next ten minutes tearing into their prize. As the delicate sugar strands melt on her tongue Kyra can almost hear the gentle voice of Keeper Deshanna warning her about the dangers of cavities and preaching moderation. The memory is more pleasant than painful and she smiles to herself as she reaches up to pluck the last of the confectionery from Dorian’s fingers. The look he gives her when she pops it into her mouth is one of utmost betrayal and she sticks her blue-tinted tongue out at him even as her eyes scan their surroundings in search of their next pursuit.

Which means she is taken entirely by surprise when the paper cone from the cotton candy whaps her solidly on the top of her head, spilling flakes of sugar across her hair like fairy dust from a magic wand. She turns back to Dorian, jaw dropping in shock, only to see him gracing her with the smuggest, most self-satisfied smirk she has ever seen.

“Oh, that’s it,” she snaps, reaching for the cone held loosely in his hand. “You realize this means war?”

Dorian laughs and takes a step back, the makeshift weapon held high the air above his head, well out of Kyra’s reach. But she has spent twenty seven years learning how to deal with people taller than she is (which is just about every non-dwarf she has ever met) and knows how to handle this. She kicks Dorian in the shin - not hard enough to injure, just to startle: she does not want to hurt him, especially over something so ridiculous - causing him to drop the cone. Kyra snags it from the air as it falls, oblivious to the audience their antics are earning them, and twirls it between her fingers with a triumphant grin.

Before Dorian has a chance to retaliate a booming laugh splits the air, accompanied by a smattering of applause. Dorian and Kyra both turn toward the source of the noise, shoulder to shoulder, their conflict abandoned in the face of the unknown. When Kyra sees the Iron Bull standing a few yards away, surrounded by a motley collection of college kids who had been the source of the applause, she breathes out a sigh of relief. She can see Dorian’s incredulous expression as she greets the Iron Bull with a wide smile, still caught up in the playfulness of the interrupted battle, and tries not to laugh.

“It’s good to see you again,” she says, walking up to the group and dragging Dorian along with her fingers twisted into the sleeve of his coat.

“You too, Squirt.”

Kyra wrinkles her nose at the nickname - every time they meet Bull tries out another one, assuring her that eventually he will find one that sticks. So far nothing has fit whatever criteria he is using to decide but he shows no signs of giving up. “Saw you over here and figured I’d take the chance to introduce you to my boys, since you never take me up on my invites.” He waves a massive hand to encompass his entourage at the words “my boys,” as though there is any doubt as to whom he means. Kyra graces the group with a hesitant wave, which Bull takes as a sign to launch into a string of names and rugby positions that Kyra has no hope of following. She’s lucky she recognizes that rugby is a sport - she has no idea what the different positions mean. There is Krem, the team captain with an undercut and what seems to be a permanent smirk, and Dalish with the vallaslin of Dirthamen to match Kyra’s own, and Skinner and Sapper and Stitches and Grim and she wonders if she is ever going to learn their actual names or if she is going to be forced to use these bizarre nicknames for the entirety of their acquaintance.

After she introduces Dorian to them in turn she expects the conversation to slide into that awkward lull that comes every time she is forced to interact with strangers, but she had failed to take into account Bull’s inexplicable charisma and social ease. She is beginning to doubt that he has ever experienced an awkward moment in his entire life. Scant minutes after the introductions have been completed Kyra finds herself standing next to Krem as he utterly destroys the test your strength machine with Iron Bull in the background trying to figure out how to eat three giant turkey legs at the same time, holding the drumsticks between his fingers like grease-laden Wolverine claws. Her only consolation is that at her shoulder Dorian looks every bit as perplexed as she feels.

“And how, exactly, did you wind up friends with a _qunari?_ ” he hisses into her ear as Krem argues with the gamesman over the prize he earned. The note of high-bred horror in the question has Kyra muffling a snicker in her scarf and she reaches up to pat Dorian’s shoulder in mock sympathy.

“Don’t sulk, darling, you’re still my favorite,” she assures him, straight-faced. Dorian scowls at her and she drops the act with a shrug. “‘Friends’ is stretching it a bit. And surely I’ve mentioned the Iron Bull to you before. Haven’t I?” When Dorian shakes his head, she frowns. “What, not once? He teaches the class with Cassandra.”

Her words draw a laugh from her friend, his expression clearing. “That explains that, then,” he says and that irritating smugness is back in his tone. “Lavellan, dearest, the only coherent thing I have ever gotten out of you in regards to those classes is that Cassandra wears sleeveless shirts and they impede your ability to think.”

Kyra flushes but is in no position to argue the point, at least not without perjuring herself most profoundly. She is saved from having to respond when one of Bull’s massive hands claps her on the shoulder, the strength of it nearly sending her to her knees. She looks up at him and chokes on a laugh at the sight of a bright purple unicorn plush hanging from one of his horns. Krem, it seems, lost the argument over his prize.

“Come on, we’re headed to the hay maze next,” he says and Kyra looks over at Dorian, the tilt of her head and lift of her eyebrows a silent question. Dorian sighs, a put-upon sound that does not last past the curve of his lips.

“Oh, very well.”

The group moves en masse toward the maze, an eight foot high configuration of haystacks designed to make navigation difficult. Within minutes of entering, Skinner decides that the best way to get her bearings and get them to the other side of the maze is to scale the hay walls, an action that leads to their immediate eviction from the maze. When the fair attendants arrive to remove them, they are unsympathetic to her protests that “if you don’t want people climbing the walls then you shouldn’t have made them so easy to climb,” protests which quickly devolve into grumbling under her breath about “fuckin’ shems” and “no respect for real ingenuity.”

Kyra leans against Dorian’s side as they are escorted from the maze. “I’ve never been kicked out of anything before,” she muses in a wondering sort of tone, earning her a laugh from Bull.

“Then you haven’t lived,” he announces before dropping the stuffed unicorn onto her head. She manages to grab it before it can hit the dirty ground and throws it back at Bull’s face, the toy squishing satisfyingly against his nose. This is apparently some sort of cue for the Chargers to start an impromptu game of hot potato, the unicorn flying from person to person faster than Kyra can follow. She ducks away from the airborne toy and follows Dorian to the edge of the open area the team has claimed as their arena. Once safely out of the line of fire she watches the game with a degree of morbid fascination: the amount of coordination they show - both individually and as a unit - is impressive. Each player seems to know where every one of their teammates is at any time without pausing to look.

Bull brings the game to a close when he sees yet another carnival attendant approaching, looking tired and harried in his red and white striped uniform, and by the time the attendant makes it to the group the unicorn is safely perched on Bull’s horns once more and the Chargers are milling about as though nothing had happened. The poor attendant looks balefully at the group as a whole before throwing up his hands and stomping away to the sound of Bull’s laughter.

“I’m thinking we ought to try that spinny flying thing next,” Bull tells Kyra and Dorian, jerking a thumb in the direction of a ride that Kyra thinks is properly called a swing ride, though she prefers “spinny flying thing” herself. “You guys in?”

Kyra eyes Bull’s bulk, picturing the (human sized, as far as she can recall) seats on the ride. “Are you sure they’ll let you on?”

“Me? Nah. Apparently there’s a weight limit and I don’t fit in the seats anyway. But the boys’ll love it. What do you say?”

Kyra catches Dorian’s eyes and does not need him to say a word to understand the “do it and I will be forced to murder you” in his look. She grins cheerfully at him just to watch the terror flood his face before she turns back to Bull.

“I think we’ll pass, thanks,” she says, biting back a snicker at Dorian’s audible sigh of relief beside her. “You guys have fun, though.”

“Oh, we will.” Bull begins to gather up his team in a manner that reminds Kyra more of a parent than a coach but he glances back at Kyra once more as his kids start to head out. “One last thing - the boys and I are doing a blacklight mini-golf thing next weekend. You should join us.” He casts his good eye over Dorian in blatant assessment that has nothing to do with measuring attractiveness and everything to do with cultural tensions reaching back centuries, then nods. “Bring the ‘Vint, too. It’ll be fun.”

“I think you and I have very different definitions of that word,” she mutters, fully intending to refuse the invitation - politely refuse, of course, but still refuse. But Dorian claps a hand over her mouth, his silver rings frigid against her lips (hasn’t the idiot ever heard of gloves? _Creators_ , how has he survived this long on his own?), cutting off her reply.

“We’ll be there,” he says and Kyra’s jaw drops behind his hand, her entire body freezing in place at his words, disbelief coursing through her. Bull, meanwhile, takes Dorian’s answer as confirmation and trots off after his team with a cheerful wave. As soon as he is gone Dorian pulls his hand away.

“What the _fuck_?” Kyra shrieks, much to the consternation of a woman passing by with two small children clinging to her hands. Kyra ignores the poisonous glare sent her way but does concede to lowering her voice. “What the fuck was that? Why did you say yes? You know I have no desire to go!”

Dorian sighs and Kyra can feel the playfulness seep from the air. “Why not?” he asks and Kyra knows that the question is not rhetorical, is not a joke. She narrows her eyes and turns to face him fully, arms crossed over her chest.

“Because I don’t want to? Since when do I need any other reason?” When his only response is to match her stance and arch a single eyebrow, she deflates. “Fuck. Fine. Why don’t I want to go? Because I’m uncomfortable in large groups. Because loud people make me nervous. Because I’ll spend the entire time hiding in a corner wanting to go home. Pick a reason.” Her voice drops with each word until by the end of it she is all but hissing at Dorian like a cat that has been dropped in a bathtub.

“Lavellan - _Kyra_ , you do realize that you just spent over an hour amongst this particular group, don’t you? And in case it escaped your notice, you did not stop smiling the entire time. You’ll be fine. And if you’re not, I’ll be there to get you out.”

Kyra jabs his chest with a finger, her hand - hell, her entire body trembling in suppressed fury. “That is _not_ your decision to make,” she spits and Dorian’s eyes fly wide at the venom in her voice. “I know I’m damaged - more than I think you really understand - and I know I have issues the size of Ferelden, but that does not make me a child and it does not give you the right to make decisions for me. I don’t need some dashing hero to swoop in and save me from myself.”

Dorian’s mouth opens but no sound emerges and Kyra is honestly not certain if anything she is saying is getting through to him. They stand in silence as the carnival continues around them and Kyra watches the flickers of expression across her friend’s face. Right at that moment she would have gladly traded her soul for the ability to know what thoughts are running through his mind. After a long, tense moment Dorian sighs and presses his fingers to his eyes.

“I owe you an apology, don’t I?” he asks and he sounds so mortified by the very idea that Kyra snorts. He isn’t going to be a dick about this, it seems, and she feels a weight lift from her shoulders at the revelation, the vise around her chest loosening. She really, _really_ loathes conflict.

“Just try not to do it again,” she orders and lets herself lean into him once more, forehead bumping against his shoulder. He catches her with an arm around her waist and pulls her into a proper hug, bundling her into his arms and burying his nose in her hair.

His scent surrounds her, old books and spice and cotton candy sugar left behind from their earlier battle, and she closes her eyes and breathes it in. A thought occurs to her.

“Does this count as our first fight?” she asks, the words buried in his coat but still understandable. He chuckles.

“I suppose so. If you wish, I can track down your Iron Bull and tell him that our plans have changed,” he offers and Kyra sighs into his chest. Dorian had a point earlier - she _has_ had fun today, even among the Chargers. Maybe...

“It might not be _too_ horrible,” she concedes after a long moment of thought. Dorian takes that as the closest to assent that she is likely to give and muffles a laugh in the tangle of her curls.

They stay like that, curled into each other, until she feels him sigh.

“I am sorry,” he whispers, just loud enough to be heard over the noise of the people moving around them.

“I know,” she replies just as quietly. She isn’t quite sure how to explain why it’s such a big deal, not without also explaining so many other things that really aren’t anything she wants to discuss here, at a fairground surrounded by strangers. “It’s...kind of a touchy subject and related to that conversation that we need to have somewhere that isn’t here,” is what she settles on, the words punctuated by a violent shiver that wracks her frame. Even pressed close to Dorian and the frankly alarming amount of body heat he emits, the chill of the mountain air still finds its way to her. Dorian steps back, releasing her with a ruffle of her hair and a quirk of his lips.

“I think that is our cue to leave,” he says as he offers her his arm once more. “Or else you’ll end up catching a cold and miss your date tomorrow and then I’ll have a detective out for my blood. And I am far too handsome to languish away in prison.”

Kyra groans and jabs her elbow into his stomach, but she does allow him to lead her to the carnival’s main gate. She spends the walk torn between relishing the idea of a heater in her near future and dreading the conversation that awaits.

But it is a conversation long overdue. If she is going to keep dragging Dorian in to help her deal with her issues then he needs to know where they come from. Otherwise they are going to continue having fights like this as he stumbles his way blindfolded through the minefield of her trauma, and the idea of fighting with Dorian is so much worse than the idea of biting the bullet and just _talking_ to him. But just because she recognizes the necessity of it does not mean she is looking forward to it.

 

* * *

 

 

“Well, shit.”

Kyra snickers from her position lying prone on Dorian’s couch, head in his lap and eyes closed as he toys with a strand of her hair.

“That about covers it, yeah,” she agrees in a quiet murmur. It was easier this time, telling him her story, as though talking about it with Cassandra had leeched some of the poison from the wound. Dorian had been silent throughout her explanation, offering his support with gentle hands in her hair and his steady presence at her side. “As I’m sure you can imagine, I was...kind of a mess for a while afterward. Which was apparently justification enough for people to try to...I don’t want to say ‘control me,’ because that sounds far too malicious, but they were so certain that they knew how to ‘fix me’ that they didn’t bother listening to what I had to say about it.”

She chews on her lower lip as she tries to figure out how to explain it to someone who is not Dalish, someone to whom her entire life is strange and alien. “You have to understand, in the clans everyone is always interfering in everyone else’s business. It’s what happens when you have a hundred people essentially living in one another’s pockets - privacy isn’t really a thing. But between well-intentioned meddling and the fact that every single thing reminded me of what I had lost, I couldn’t handle it. I left. Got accepted into Skyhold’s doctoral program, moved out here, and isolated myself from just about everything. And then I met you.”

She opens her eyes for the first time since she had started talking to see Dorian looking down at her with a strange sort of wonder, like she is something rare and precious. Which is ridiculous, when it is clearly the other way around. “And then hiding wasn’t an option anymore. It’s like I had spent the last year in a dream, thinking that someday I would wake up back with my clan, with Rion at my side, but then I actually did wake up and he was still gone and suddenly everything was real. Too real.”

“Do you regret it?” Dorian asks and her response is immediate, unthinking.

“No. Not even a little. It needed to happen and even if it didn’t, the hurt wasn’t the only thing the dream was keeping away. How do you start to care for someone in a dream? Waking up meant befriending you and everyone else - Cassandra and Sera and Dagna and Bull and Josephine and even Leliana, as terrifying as she is. And I wouldn’t give that up to go back to dreaming.”

“Of course not - we’re far too interesting.” But  the little tension lines around his eyes fade at her words and Kyra realizes that he was genuinely worried that she blamed him for pulling her out of her isolation. She quirks a smile up at him.

“Mmhmm,” she agrees and for a moment there is a comfortable silence between them.

“Does this mean it’s my turn to share my deep, dark secrets?” Dorian asks after a few minutes and Kyra frowns.

“No.” She shifts so that she is propped up on her elbow, spine twisted to allow her to look Dorian in the eye. His tone had been light but she needs him to realize how serious she is about this. “I did not tell you this to con some sort of reciprocation from you. I told you because I wanted you to know: there is no obligation or expectation on your part.”

Dorian’s moustache twitches as he smiles. “Trust me, my dear, I know. You are endearingly straightforward about such things.”

Kyra scans his expression, judging his sincerity, before nodding once in satisfaction and dropping her head - carefully - back into his lap. “You may continue to pet me,” she announces with all the arrogant dignity of a spoiled noble lady. It has the desired effect, drawing a bark of laughter from Dorian.

“Oh, _may_ I? That’s very generous of you.” But his hand falls back to her hair regardless, carding through the thick curls. “I suspect my story would be boring in comparison,” he says and Kyra is not fooled by the easy nature of his words. She stays quiet, allows him to say as much or as little as he wishes without her prodding. “Father and son who don’t see eye to eye; the son rebels against his father’s rule and winds up in the barren, barbaric south. It’s the oldest story in the book.”

“You forgot the part where the son is a dashing, charming scoundrel and his departure left his entire homeland desolate and devoid of light and life,” she adds after Dorian falls silent. He laughs again and begins twisting the hair in his hands into a braid.

“Of course. How absent-minded of me.” Another brief silence as she lets the motion of his hands lull her into a half-doze. Then, “the night of Felix’s party I found out that he has apparently contacted both Felix and Professor Alexius in an attempt to track me down. Something about ‘seeing the error of his ways’ or some other such nonsense.”

“He couldn’t have meant it?” Kyra asks, no judgement in her voice, just curiosity. This time Dorian’s laugh is a bitter, humorless thing.

“Not without a complete personality transplant,” he says. “I fled the country to get away from him for a reason. If he is trying to get in touch with me now, it isn’t for a heartfelt family reunion.”

Kyra makes a quiet noise of understanding, unsure how to respond to such a pronouncement. “I’m sorry” is all but meaningless, “that sucks” too trite. She settles on, “if he tries anything I will totally punch him in the face for you. Or we could get Bull to do it - I’m sure he hits harder than I do and I get the feeling that he doesn’t like Tevinter very much. He’d probably be happy to help out.” Despite her tone, she is not entirely joking. If she ever does meet Dorian’s father she will be hard-pressed to keep from doing something incredibly stupid. And likely violent. Even without details that Dorian still seems unlikely to divulge, the idea of anyone disapproving of Dorian so much that he feels to need to put thousands of miles between them in an attempt to escape actually offends her on a soul-deep level. He is one of the best people she knows and she cannot forgive the elder Pavus for making him think, even for a moment, that he might be anything less than wonderful.

Dorian drops his head down to press against hers, his torso shaking with silent laughter. “That’s very generous of you.”

“I’m here to help.”

And that, it seems, is the end of it. Their conversation drifts to less weighty topics and when Kyra eventually drifts off to sleep on Dorian’s couch, not willing to expend the energy it would take to get home, she feels more at ease with the world than she has in a long time. Her last thought before sleep claims her is that she hopes their conversation did something similar for Dorian. He deserves some peace.


	14. Chapter 14

Things settle down a little over the next few days, which gives Kyra the chance to shift back into something resembling a routine. She attends class with Cassandra and Iron Bull as usual on Saturday (partnering with Sera again as promised) followed by drinks at the Fade and then spends Sunday scrambling to finish the classwork she put off all weekend in favor of spending time with her friends (she has  _friends,_ as in, more than one - she is still getting used to the way that feels). Monday and Tuesday are dedicated to attending class and lab and reassuring herself that their talk on Friday night had not irrevocably ruined her relationship with Dorian through a relentless barrage of pointless texts, rambling phone calls, and surprise lunch dates. It is not until Wednesday evening that anything serves to derail her once more.

Kyra is sprawled out on her couch, her laptop balanced on her lap and _Firefly_ on her television for background noise while she attempts to make something resembling progress on her thesis, when the shrill ring of her cell phone drags her attention from her work. At the sight of the name on the caller ID she has to fight off her smile, chastising herself for being ridiculous even as she answers the phone.

“Hey, Cassandra,” she greets and prays that she has successfully kept the crush-induced giddiness out of her voice. “What’s up?”

There is a moment of silence on the other end of the line and Kyra starts to wonder if Cassandra had perhaps dialed her on accident, jostling her phone in her pocket or her bag just enough to make the call. But then she hears a sharp, irritated noise followed by Cassandra’s voice.

“Nothing, never mind. I apologize: this was an ill-thought out idea and I should not have bothered you. I do not even know why I -”

Kyra cuts her off before she can ramble herself into hanging up, a furrow between her brows as her earlier elation fades into concern.

“Okay, no, seriously. What’s wrong? You called me for a reason and you know I’m not going to let it go until you tell me what it is. I am annoyingly persistent like that.”

There is a huff from Cassandra, followed by a pause, and when she speaks again she sounds significantly less flustered. “That is one way to phrase it,” she agrees, then sighs in a way that Kyra knows means she is massaging her temples with her free hand. Not that she can tell the difference between the different kinds of Cassandra’s sighs. Because that would be weird. “It is nothing. I am...frustrated and for some reason I decided that meant I should call you.”

Kyra has to bite down on her immediate reaction to that particular revelation. There is little she can do about the sudden tightness in her chest or the delighted flush on her cheeks - not from the fact that Cassandra is upset but because her first reaction to _being_ upset is to call Kyra - but like hell if she is going to let any of that show in her voice.

“Cassandra,” she says and she takes some measure of pride in how steady and unaffected she sounds, “talk to me. What’s wrong?”

Cassandra makes an irritated noise and Kyra wonders if she is going to have to spend their entire conversation translating “annoyed Cassandra sounds” into actual real-people speak. As she starts to close down her laptop (she knows already that she will not be getting any more work done just now, not with Cassandra sounding like this), she catches sight of the time and a burst of comprehension hits her.

“Oh. I see. What happened at work? Did your boss do something stupid again?”

There is a moment of stunned silence on the other line, followed by a demanding, “How can you _possibly_ know that?”

Kyra laughs because, hey, those were actual words. Victory is hers. “It’s five thirty and you’re not at work - I can hear the traffic in the background. You never leave work before six thirty when you’ve got a case and you had just gotten a new one a few days ago. Which means either your case went really wrong or your boss is being an idiot again. It’s not exactly a difficult connection to make.”

Cassandra actually laughs at that, a low chuckle that does worrying things to Kyra’s heart. “Am I truly so predictable?” she asks and Kyra isn’t sure how to respond to that. “I possibly pay a little too much attention to your habits due to my massive and really irritating crush on you” is perhaps not the best answer ever, even if it is true. She opts to shift the topic of conversation back to the matter at hand instead.

“You want to talk about it?” she asks, earning herself a snort.

“Trust me, you do not want to make that offer,” Cassandra says dryly. Kyra rolls her eyes.

“Wouldn’t make it if I didn’t mean it.” She digs her teeth into her lower lip, considering her next words, before giving a mental “fuck it.” She is not above exploiting her friends’ weaknesses when necessary. For their own good, of course. “I’m about to order pizza and I have the last _Swords and Shields_ movie on Amazon. Come over and regale me with whatever idiocy you’re dealing with while we watch really terrible romance movies that I still can’t believe you like.”

There is a pause as Cassandra considers her offer. Finally she sighs and Kyra hears her surrender even before she says a word.

“You do not fight fair,” Cassandra accuses and Kyra grins into the phone.

“Not even a little,” she agrees without hesitation. “Anything in particular you want on the pizza?”

“If you put pineapple on it I will consider it an act of war,” Cassandra warns, entirely serious. Kyra laughs.

“Ixnay on the pineapple, got it. Veggie okay?”

“It is acceptable.”

“Awesome. I’ll see you in a bit.”

The conversation ends after Cassandra’s quiet murmur of agreement and once they hang up Kyra bursts into a flurry of motion, frantically cleaning up her living room as she calls in the pizza order. She knows Cassandra won’t say anything no matter how messy it is but Kyra cannot resist the urge to attempt to look at least a little less like the disaster she is. She gets most of her books put away, her laundry thrown into her bedroom to be dealt with later, and her dirty dishes out of the sink and into the dishwasher before a knock at her door tells her that she has run out of time.

She yanks the door open, stumbling a little with the force of her pull, to see Cassandra standing on the other side with a raised eyebrow and a hint of a smile. Ah. So her less-than-graceful antics have not gone unnoticed. Fantastic.

“Everything all right?” Cassandra asks as Kyra ushers her inside, earning herself a half-hearted glare.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she lies through her teeth. “Nothing happened.”

Cassandra hums doubtfully as she strips off her suit jacket and drapes it over the back of the couch, a motion that Kyra adamantly does _not_ watch, just as she does not notice that the dress shirt Cassandra is wearing is _very_ well-tailored. Her sudden dry mouth at that exact moment is pure coincidence. Honest.

Realizing that she is, in fact, staring like a creeper, Kyra forces herself to focus. She gives Cassandra a gentle push in the direction of the couch, careful not to let her hands linger.

“You want something to drink?” she asks, making her way into the kitchen even as she speaks. “I’ve got water, a couple of different kinds of soda, beer, and some sort of red wine that Dorian left here yesterday whose name I cannot even begin to pronounce but knowing Dorian is hideously expensive.”

Cassandra’s low laugh comes from far closer than Kyra is expecting - she has ignored Kyra’s guidance and stands in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed over her chest as she watches Kyra putter around the room.

“Won’t Dorian mind if we drink his wine?”

Kyra waves her hand in dismissal. “If he wanted it he should have taken it with him. Once it ends up in my fridge it’s fair game for anyone.” She does not mention that with Dorian being the only one who ever visits her the odds of anyone else drinking anything he leaves in the fridge are typically slim. That does not change the truth of the statement. “Strange overpriced wine it is. Grab us glasses?” She directs Cassandra to the correct cabinet while she retrieves the wine from the refrigerator.

The doorbell rings as they carry the drinks out into the living room and Kyra hands her glass off to Cassandra to take over to the coffee table in order to grab her wallet and answer the door. Two minutes later she makes her own way over to the couch, down fifteen bucks but in possession of a large pizza that she deposits in the center of the coffee table, followed by a massive pile of napkins. Cassandra had laid claim to the remote while Kyra was busy and she flicks through her Amazon list with an arched eyebrow. Kyra throws a napkin at her as she takes her seat on the opposite side of the couch.

“You are in no position to judge me on my movie collection,” she says, opening the lid of the pizza box to reveal delicious cheesy goodness. “You own _Twilight_.”

Cassandra wrinkles her nose at the reminder, cheeks flushed a dull red. “That was a mistake. I was misinformed as to the nature of the movie.”

Kyra snickers around a bite of pizza so hot she can feel the roof of her mouth burning. She soothes it with a sip of wine, acknowledging Dorian’s excellent taste and listening to Cassandra grumble as she finds the movie she is searching for - the last in the _Swords and Shields_ series, based off the books written by best-selling author Varric Tethras. Kyra had discovered Cassandra’s soft spot for the books and associated movies several days before while defending her own choice of comfort film (she doesn’t care what anyone else says, she _likes_ that version of _Pride and Prejudice_ , thank you very much) and after sitting through the first three movies in the series Kyra can only say that she completely understands why it was cancelled halfway through. Though that had not stopped her from purchasing the fourth and final movie; as awful as they are, she cannot seem to stop watching them.

The opening credits play and Kyra nudges Cassandra’s knee with her toes. When Cassandra turns to face her, head tilted in curiosity, Kyra gestures toward the TV.

“Pizza and terrible romance movies, as promised. Your turn: you going to tell me what had you so worked up earlier?”

Cassandra scowls and takes a bite of her pizza, chewing slowly in an obvious attempt to buy time. Finally she seems to settle on what to say.

“Do you remember the conversation we had several weeks ago regarding my concerns about the integrity of the force?” she asks and Kyra nods.

“You were worried because your boss kept pulling you off half-finished cases.”

Cassandra makes a vague noise of agreement. “It seemed... odd, so I looked into it.” She pauses to sip at her drink, the wine staining her lips a deep red, and though her eyes are fixed on the television Kyra doubts that she is seeing it. “What I found... it is worse than I had thought. He hid his tracks well, but searching out secrets is what I trained for. I found records of strange payments, of cases that were marked as closed despite no evidence that they had been given even a cursory investigation. The cases that were taken from Daniel and I were all immediately abandoned, even those that still had promising leads.”

And Kyra may have no understanding of the inner workings of the police department but even she can connect those dots. “He’s taking bribes to ignore certain crimes.”

Cassandra tears her eyes from the screen to meet Kyra’s, hard and angry. “That is my conclusion, as well.”

It seems like something out of a story, not real life. Even now Kyra can’t quite get herself to believe that this is something that is actually happening, a real conspiracy that her friend has uncovered rather than the plot of some terrible movie. It is too much to wrap her mind around. These kinds of things just don’t _happen_ to her.

But this isn’t about her; it never has been. This is about Cassandra.

Her fingers itch to reach for Cassandra’s hand, her shoulder, anything to offer some sort of comfort to ease the strain that lies beneath every line of Cassandra’s body, a desire that has nothing to do with her crush and everything to do with the fact that she doesn’t know how else to comfort someone. Words never work the way she wants them to and half the time talking makes things worse instead of better. Touch is easier.

Most of the time, at least. With Cassandra... well, Kyra is at the point where she isn’t certain that she can tell where the line between “comforting a friend” and “back the fuck off, you’re taking advantage” lies anymore, and she is terrified that she will do something stupid without even realizing it and ruin everything. So she keeps her hands to herself and hopes that this time her words will suffice.

“What are you going to do about it?” she asks. Because if she knows anything about Cassandra, she knows that there is no chance that she will let this go. Not without a fight.

A snarl tears from Cassandra’s throat and she jolts to her feet, wine glass abandoned on the table. “I do not _know_ ,” she snaps, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her knuckles white. Kyra suspects that if she were to take a look at Cassandra’s palms just then she would find four perfect crescents gouged into each one where her nails press into tender skin.

“Protocol in such cases is to report any suspicions to the Chief of Police, Lucius Corin,” she says as she begins to pace, marking out Kyra’s living room in her long strides. “He then assigns a team from Internal Affairs and we perform a thorough, objective investigation. In theory, that is. But when he is among those I suspect? When I do not know how far or how high this corruption has spread? If the Chief of Police is complicit in this, is _anyone_ above suspicion? How do I know anyone I attempt to report to is not also involved?”

Her voice is thick with helpless frustration and Kyra’s heart clenches at the sound.

Oh, fuck it. She is not going to sit here uselessly while her friend is hurting. As Cassandra’s pacing brings her back toward the couch, Kyra reaches out to snag her wrist and interrupt her movement.

“Hey,” she says, pulling Cassandra back down to sit on the couch with a few gentle tugs on her wrist. Cassandra allows herself to be led, though she watches Kyra warily the entire time, eyes glittering with anger. Kyra tries not to take it personally. “You’ll figure it out.”

“You cannot know that.” Cassandra sits with her shoulders straight, her jaw clenched and every part of her bleeding tension.

“I know _you_. That’s really all I need to know.”

She does not release her hold once Cassandra is sitting down, instead sliding her hand from Cassandra’s wrist to her hand and twining their fingers together.

“Okay?” she asks, her voice soft, hesitant. She keeps an eye on Cassandra, looking for any sign that the touch is unwelcome. She wants to help, not hurt.

Cassandra stares at their hands for a long second, unmoving, though Kyra doubts that she is actually seeing them. Her eyes flick up to Kyra’s, a wealth of emotion clouding the normally-sharp gaze - anger and helplessness and silent fury - and then she...deflates. There is no other word for the way her shoulders slump, her face softens, her eyes close. Her grip on Kyra’s hand tightens to the point of pain and she drops her forehead forward to rest against Kyra’s shoulder, an almost inaudible “you’re fine” filling the space between them.

Kyra stiffens in shock and Cassandra starts to pull back, apologies falling from her lips and flush coloring her cheeks. That is all it takes to snap Kyra out of her surprise: without thinking the action through she slides her hand out of Cassandra’s and wraps her arm around her waist, stopping her retreat and pulling her back in toward Kyra. But she misjudges the motion and, in a spectacular display of grace and coordination, manages to overbalance them so that they both go sprawling onto the couch in a tangle of limbs, faces distractingly close together and Cassandra’s arms braced on either side of Kyra’s shoulders where she tried to stop their fall. Cassandra huffs out a laugh and Kyra can feel the stress leach from her body, loosening her limbs.

“Very smooth,” she says and Kyra’s face heats, though she notices that Cassandra makes no move to return to their original positions. Instead she sighs, a sound filled with a quiet exhaustion, and shifts to the side so that she fits between Kyra and the back of the couch.

“Shut up,” Kyra mutters, fighting down a surge of embarrassment. “I was trying to be comforting and... possibly overdid it. A little.”

She feels Cassandra’s soft laugh more than she hears it, the shake of her shoulder where it presses against Kyra’s. She grumbles and reaches up to poke her in the side. “Fuck off. I know I’m a little rusty. I haven’t exactly had much of a chance to work on my people skills recently.”

Cassandra shakes her head and between the curl of her smile and the ease in her expression, whatever embarrassment Kyra feels fades to irrelevance.

“You okay?” she asks quietly and she can almost feel the way the relaxed atmosphere falls apart at her words. Cassandra sighs.

“I will be better once I have decided on a course of action,” she admits, resting her head in one hand, elbow pressed into the couch near Kyra’s ear. Only a thin sliver of couch separates their bodies and Kyra _really_ needs to move away. Right now. “It is the uncertainty that I do not know what to do with. I am much happier when I am _doing_ something.”

“Is there no one you know you can trust? No one who might be able to help?”

Cassandra glances away and Kyra tries not to notice that from where she lies the interplay of light and shadow across Cassandra’s face make her cheekbones even more prominent than usual, sharp enough that she almost believes if she reached up to touch them they would cut her fingers. The heat of Cassandra’s hip and leg so near hers is like fire and it takes more willpower than Kyra even knew she had to keep her mind out of the gutter and where it belongs. Moving away. Any second now. She means it.

“What is it, Cassandra?” she asks instead and Cassandra sighs.

“There is an... acquaintance of my roommate,” she admits, saying  “acquaintance” the way most people would say “flesh eating bacteria” or “venereal disease.” Kyra bites her lip to keep from snickering. “I am hesitant to involve him for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which being that I cannot stand the hellspawn, but for this... he might be my only option. And while I do not trust a great many things about him, I cannot believe he would be involved in this.”

Kyra shifts up so she is sitting with her back propped against the arm of the couch, finally putting some much-needed distance between the two of them. Cassandra mirrors her, upright against the back of the couch with her legs crossed in front of her. They are still close, clustered on the same end of the couch, but Kyra can think without the scent of Cassandra’s skin, floral on steel in a way that should not blend together nearly so well, clouding her brain.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asks, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around her bent legs to keep them to herself and out of trouble. Cassandra leans her head back against the back of the couch with an irritated snort.

“He is a lying little snake who has been a thorn in my side since I was transferred to Skyhold.”

“A colleague, then?” Kyra guesses, judging by the combination of familiarity and distaste in Cassandra’s voice.

“Worse. A journalist.”

Kyra snickers and leans forward to rest her chin on her knees. Though Cassandra glares at her, there is no heat in the expression.

“So what are you going to do?”

The question earns her a disgusted noise from her friend. “Ask Cullen to arrange a meeting and hope I can make it through an entire conversation without strangling the miserable bastard, I suppose.”

Kyra laughs again as she reaches for the abandoned pizza box. “Would company help?” she offers, plucking a slice of still-warm pizza for herself before holding the box out to Cassandra. “I’m willing to play mediator, if you want. Or alibi.”

Cassandra arches an eyebrow at her as she helps herself to the pizza but Kyra just grins, unrepentant. When it becomes apparent that Kyra has no intention of amending her statement, Cassandra shakes her head. At first Kyra assumes that to be the lead in to a “no” and while she is disappointed she cannot say she is surprised, but the next words out of Cassandra’s mouth are anything but a refusal.

“I would appreciate that,” she says and Kyra is helpless to prevent the wide smile that slashes across her face as the words register.

“What, seriously?” she demands because, while pleased, she is also somewhat confused. “No ‘you don’t have to do that’ or warning me that it’ll be horrible and I shouldn’t put myself through it? Either I’m wearing you down or this guy is _really_ bad.”

“It cannot be both?”

Kyra pretends to consider it as she chews a bite of pizza then shrugs. “I’ll take both,” she decides. Cassandra rolls her eyes. “So we’re agreed, then? You get your roommate to set up the meeting and I try to keep you from committing homicide once you’re there?”

“That does seem to be the plan,” Cassandra agrees, sipping at her recovered wine.

“Brilliant. Crisis averted.”

“For the moment.”

Kyra sticks her tongue out at Cassandra before making grabby hands at the remote sitting on the far side of the couch. “Gimme that, then. We’ve missed, like, half the movie and I have to know how the Guard Captain survived that Carta ambush. We’re starting it over.”

Cassandra passes her the remote with a snort. “I have created a monster,” she says, earning her a grin from Kyra.

“They’re terrible and I hate you for ever introducing me to them. Now shut up and eat your pizza and let me watch the damn movie.”

Cassandra inclines her head in surrender and Kyra fiddles with the remote until she convinces the movie to restart, the embarrassingly familiar title card filling the screen. The next two hours are spent in companionable silence interrupted only occasionally by their more dramatic reactions to plot developments. And though Kyra ends up paying more attention to the play of emotions across Cassandra’s face as she watches, the way her teeth sink into her lip when the Guard Captain puts herself in danger or the victorious grin she wears when said Guard Captain emerges triumphant once more, than she does to the movie she insisted they restart, she cannot bring herself to regret it.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering, @archertethras is entirely to blame for the existence of this chapter. I had not even realized glow in the dark mini golf was a thing...

With everything else that had occurred over the course of her week, Kyra had somehow managed to forget that she had agreed to spend Friday evening playing “blacklight minigolf” (whatever the fuck that even is: she still has no idea) with Iron Bull and the Chargers. It is not until Dorian calls her as she leaves her office that afternoon in order to remind her of their plans in his most irritatingly smug sing-song voice that she remembers and she promptly spends the next three minutes cursing at Dorian in a variety of new and interesting ways. She hangs up without giving him a chance to reply and grumbles through the entirety of her walk home to change out of her work clothes into something a little more suitable for whatever shenanigans Bull has planned.

She meets up with Dorian several hours later a block away from the course and bursts into laughter when she sees his outfit.

“Did you miss the ‘blacklight’ part of the name?” she asks with a sweeping gesture meant to encompass his entire ensemble, black jacket over a maroon sweater and fitted black trousers. “I really hope your laundry machine is up to standard.”

Dorian looks from his clothes over to hers, light wash jeans and a sky blue hoodie chosen specifically so that any spills or stains would be less visible under a blacklight, just in case. His moustache twitches in annoyance, sending her into another fit of giggles, and without giving him a chance to respond she reaches out to link their arms to pull him toward the door of the building. They might as well get this over with.

Upon entering they are met by a burst of light (thankfully restricted to normal fluorescents, at least here) and noise and the heat of too many bodies in too small a space: it appears that the Chargers have beaten them here. Bull towers over his team, his horns dangerously close to scraping against the ceiling, and he gives a great booming shout of their names when he catches sight of them.

Kyra allows Dorian to lead them across the room to Bull, content to follow in his wake. There are fewer people here than she had feared, only about a half dozen students clustered around Bull, all of whom Kyra recognizes from the carnival the week before. She had worried that she would have to deal with the entire team all at once (apparently, or so the school website would have her believe, there are more than fifteen players on the Skyhold Chargers’ rugby team: Kyra can’t imagine trying to navigate around so many strangers) and it is a relief to find that she was wrong.

Her next surprise comes when she and Dorian finally reach Iron Bull and Kyra sees just who is standing next to him, embroiled in an argument in which the words “manipulative ass” and “hey, relax” make frequent appearances.

“Bull didn’t mention you’d be here, Cassandra,” Kyra interrupts, ignoring Dorian’s shit-eating grin next to her. Cassandra levels a glare at Bull that would bring a lesser man to his knees but seems to have no effect on the qunari.

“He lured me here under false pretenses,” she mutters and if that degree of irritation had been directed toward Kyra she would have been terrified (a little turned on, yes, but mostly terrified). Bull, on the other hand, apparently has no such sense of self-preservation and just laughs.

“I think that’s everyone,” he says as he scans the room, running a quick head count. “Let’s get going!”

“Someone want to explain what blacklight minigolf actually is?” Kyra asks, question almost lost in the chaos of Bull trying to wrangle his team.

“Miniature golf with black lights instead of regular lights,” Dorian tells her in the tone of someone who has Done His Research, Thank You Very Much. “Everything glows.” Kyra rolls her eyes and elbows him in the side.

“I had figured that much out on my own, thanks. What’s miniature golf? I’m assuming some derivation of regular golf, with the clubs and tees and everything?”

Cassandra frowns at her. “You agreed to this without knowing anything about it?” There is enough skepticism in her voice to fill an ocean and Kyra can’t blame her - it hardly sounds like something she would do of her own free will. In answer she jerks a thumb at Dorian, laying all the blame for this ridiculous escapade exactly where it belongs. Cassandra makes a vague sound of understanding that is underscored by Dorian’s insulted huff and by the time Bull returns, hands full of colorful golf clubs and mesh bag of balls hanging from one horn, the two of them have managed to cobble together a halfway-comprehensible explanation of the game. As far as Kyra can determine, it seems to have nothing to do with athletic ability and everything to do with steady hands and spatial awareness, which is fine with her. She prefers it when games play to her strengths.

There is a brief moment of something dangerously close to war as the Chargers all make a grab for a golf ball in their preferred color, chaos erupting whenever two of them go after the same one. Kyra manages to slip in and snag a bright green ball for herself and makes her escape back to the fringes of the group while everyone else is distracted by Skinner and Stitches fighting over a red one that apparently neither of them can live without. Cassandra doesn’t bother with such subtlety, just stalks through the tussle that seems to part around her, even adrenaline-fueled college athletes unwilling to mess with the detective. Dorian follows close behind, taking advantage of the bubble of calm around her.

The fight lasts only a few minutes before the team manages to calm themselves down enough for Bull to start passing around the clubs, though Kyra doesn’t manage to catch who actually won the use of the much-sought-after red ball. There is no warring this time - the clubs are color-coded according to height and no amount of hitting people will make it any more possible for Sapper to use the human-sized orange club, however much he seems to want to. (Kyra cannot comprehend what is so important about getting the right color of anything, but apparently to the Chargers it is of the utmost importance...)

Once they are all properly equipped, Bull hikes a red club longer than Kyra is tall over his shoulder, tosses his neon pink ball proudly into the air a few times, and grins at his team and hangers-on.

“All right, Chargers!” he bellows in a voice more suited to a rugby field than an indoor lobby.

As one, the Chargers thrust their right hands into the air, pointer fingers and pinkies extended, and yell, loud enough to match their coach, “ _Horns up!_ ”

With much whooping and yelling they tear out of the lobby and into the huge open room containing the course itself, Kyra, Dorian, and Cassandra trailing them at a more reasonable pace. It takes a minute for Kyra’s eyes to adjust to the change from the bright fluorescents in the lobby to the strange blue of the course’s blacklights. The walls and obstacles on the greens (can she still call them greens when they’re matte black? she isn’t certain) are all covered in brightly colored paints that glow under the unfamiliar light and the ball in Kyra’s right hand shines a brilliant green against the muted blue-purple of her skin. A glance over at Dorian has her bursting into laughter.

“I tried to warn you,” she says, watching him struggle in vain to brush off the countless little dust flecks that, while invisible under normal lighting, glow like tiny white stars against the black of his jacket under the blacklight. Dorian just glares at her, his dark skin making the expression difficult to see.

From what Kyra can tell, everyone is meant to play through each hole at the same time, switching out with every hit. With the Chargers involved this seems to mean that the first few players try to get their ball in the hole while everyone after them sacrifices their own scores in favor of knocking other balls into the least advantageous positions possible. It takes her all of thirty seconds to decide that it is in her best interests to let them play their way through the hole before trying to start herself, though she makes Dorian explain her decision to Bull. While she has no idea what arguments he uses, once Bull takes his first swing (somehow managing to crash his ball into every single one on the course) play immediately swings back to Krem, who steps up to his ball like he has a score to settle, and leaves Dorian, Kyra, and Cassandra to wait for the green to clear before playing themselves.

It takes nearly twenty minutes for the Chargers to make it through the first hole, any progress one of them made immediately countered by their teammates.

“I am beginning to think we should have demanded to go first,” Cassandra says as they watch the carnage unfold before them.

“I don’t know: then we would miss the opportunity to see Bull wipe the floor with his kids,” Kyra replies thoughtfully. “I’m pretty sure half of his shots aren’t even physically possible, and yet...”

The Chargers finally move on to the second hole accompanied by a cacophony of cheers and jeers and insults both friendly and not, leaving the first open for the other three to play. Dorian and Cassandra shove Kyra forward to take the first shot (well, Dorian shoves her forward; Cassandra just watches with a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, the traitor) and she takes a moment to study the green before placing her ball.

It seems simple enough once she gets over the eye-smarting color scheme (the borders are traced out in a glowing yellow paint that makes Kyra think of radioactive waste, which is not the most comforting comparison ever). The hole is at the other end of a flat U-curve and after considering it she sets her ball on the right-most part of the black plastic mat that serves as a tee. She mimics the stance she had seen the Chargers use, sticks her tongue out at a snickering Dorian, and swings.

It’s not bad for her first try - she gets the ball to ricochet off the edge of the U at the right angle to send it down the other leg, hitting the far wall and rolling to a stop about two feet away from the hole. Dorian’s snickers abruptly change to grumbles and as they trade places he makes a point to poke her in the side, making her squeak.

She watches Dorian swing, noting the subtle hesitance in his movements that makes her suspect he has never done this, either. His black ball (and he is never going to live down the stupidity of that decision: it is barely visible on the equally-black course) just barely rounds the curve, still several yards away from where it is supposed to be.

“Not a word,” he warns when a smug grin splits across Kyra’s face. She blinks innocently, wide-eyed and harmless.

“I didn’t say anything!” she protests. “What would I possibly want to say after such a display of skill and expertise by one who is clearly a master of the craft?”

Dorian raises his club and waves it threateningly at her, but she just grins at him while trying not to stare too blatantly as Cassandra ignores the both of them in favor of taking her shot.

...And somehow managing to do even worse than Dorian, purple ball hitting the edge of the U with too much force and at entirely the wrong angle and bouncing right back down the starting leg of the U. Cassandra glares at the ball sitting quietly about three feet from the tee as though it had personally offended her.

“That is not what was supposed to happen,” she snaps, her voice a fascinating combination of embarrassment and anger. Kyra wishes they were playing under normal lights - she bets Cassandra’s face would be a sight to behold just then, embarrassment turning her skin a vibrant red. Dorian is cackling with glee, his teeth glinting blue, and Cassandra rounds on him with a thundercloud on her brow. “Be silent. Your performance was nothing to crow about, either.”

“My dear detective,” Dorian replies, flashing her his most charming grin. “I wouldn’t _dare_.”

Kyra saves Dorian from whatever unpleasant fate Cassandra has planned for him by stepping between them on her way to her ball, reaching up to place one hand on Dorian’s chest and the other on Cassandra’s shoulder and physically push them apart. She prays they manage to make it through the course without some sort of war erupting between the two of them: she _really_ does not want to be caught in the middle of that.

It takes two more shots to get her ball in the hole, her failure to account for the way the ground around the hole sloped inward causing her first attempt to slingshot around the rim instead of roll in. In that time Dorian manages to get his ball in the vicinity of the hole, at least, while Cassandra barely makes it around the bend of the U. Kyra sits back and watches in morbid fascination as Dorian swears at his ball in at least three languages and Cassandra tries to figure out how to rein in her strength enough to keep hers from ricocheting off the wall right back to where she started.

Dorian’s ball finally sinks into the hole, drawing a triumphant shout in Tevene that Kyra thinks translates to something along the lines of “take that, you goat-molesting son of a mime” (though she could be wrong - her grasp of the language is tenuous at best) from him. From the cluster of Chargers up ahead Kyra hears Krem’s responding cheer and she has to physically drag Dorian off the green before he can burst into an impromptu victory dance or something equally ridiculous. His success only seems to annoy Cassandra further.

“Pretend you’re hitting an egg instead of a ball,” Dorian advises when Cassandra continues to put far too much force into her swings. “Hit it too hard and you’ll crack the shell.”

Cassandra glowers at him “That is the worst advice I have ever heard. Why would I want to hit an egg with a golf club?”

Dorian responds with an easy shrug. “All my other suggestions involved sex. I thought you’d prefer this one.”

“I would prefer you to stop talking,” Cassandra mutters, narrowed eyes fixed on her ball as though she could send it into the hole through sheer force of will. If anyone could pull that off, Kyra is convinced it would be Cassandra. After frowning at the green (black? whichever) for a minute, a smile cuts across Kyra’s face as an idea occurs to her. She hops down from where she has perched on a decorative post beside the hole and motions for Dorian to stay where he is. Cassandra eyes her warily as she plops down onto the green next to her ball and places her hand in front of it, forming a miniature wall between player and ball. She grins up at Cassandra.

“Okay. Now try it.”

“What?” Cassandra stares at her like she has lost her mind. From what Kyra can make out of Dorian’s expression, he is doing the same. “Absolutely not! I could break your hand!”

Kyra shrugs, unconcerned. “Then I guess you ought to be careful.”

Cassandra glares at her, expression made all the more fearsome by the unfamiliar shadows cast by the lighting. “You are not going to give up on this, are you?” she asks, her fingers pressing against her temples. Kyra shakes her head.

“Not a chance.”

There is a brief silence as the two of them try to stare each other down with Dorian watching from the sidelines. When Kyra arches an eyebrow, the action intentionally aggravating, Cassandra growls.

Which Kyra should probably not find as hot as she does. Fuck.

“Fine,” Cassandra bites out and Kyra sets aside her inconvenient arousal in order to pay attention to what is going on around her. She watches Cassandra line up her shot as though Kyra’s hand weren’t blocking her, watches her shirt pull taut against the muscles in her arms as she readies her swing, then watches those same muscles suddenly loosen just before she moves. The motion of the club is smoother and slower than anything Cassandra has yet managed and Kyra’s eyes light in triumph as she pulls her hand out of the way at the very last second and lets Cassandra’s club knock her ball gently into the hole.

Cassandra’s amazed laughter curls across Kyra’s shoulders like a blanket as she holds out a hand to help Kyra to her feet. She stumbles a little as she rises and when she recovers her balance she finds herself standing only inches from Cassandra, who looks at her with a quiet happiness that sets Kyra’s heart racing in her chest.

 _I could kiss her_ , she realizes, dazed. It would be so easy, just push up on her toes and lean forward and she can find out what that happiness tastes like -

Kyra stumbles back, shaking her head to clear it. What in Mythal’s name is wrong with her?

“Are you all right?” Cassandra asks, brow creased in concern. She reaches out to steady Kyra with a hand on her shoulder and Kyra has to bite back a curse at the warmth of her touch.

“I’m fine. Just stood up too fast,” she lies. Cassandra seems satisfied enough with the answer, releasing her and taking a much-appreciated step back. With some distance between them, Kyra can breathe again.

“Thank you for your assistance,” Cassandra says once Kyra has pulled herself together. It takes Kyra a moment to realize that she is talking about the game but once she does she flashes her a smile. If it is a little weaker than usual, no one comments on it.

“Knew you wouldn’t hurt me,” she replies with a shrug. Dorian, with an impeccable sense of timing that makes Kyra consider forgiving him for dragging her on this blasted excursion to begin with, interrupts what could quickly spiral into a very awkward moment and gives Kyra a much-needed chance to compose herself.

“Well,” he says, coming up beside them and draping an arm across Kyra’s shoulders. “Now that we have that sorted, shall we move on? The Chargers have thoughtfully cleared out of the next lane for us.”

There is a marked improvement in Cassandra’s performance over the next few holes as she gets accustomed to holding back, to the point where Kyra suspects that she and Dorian have started to turn it into a competition. She watches her friends vie for second place with a grin: she was already familiar with Dorian’s competitive streak and the fact that Cassandra has one as well comes as no great shock. It is possible that she finds a little too much amusement in the dual glares she receives as she consistently makes it in just above par, but she'll take her entertainment where she can find it.

After a particularly tricky shot where Kyra gets her ball through an S-curve in a single hit, ball bouncing from wall to wall to end near enough to the hole that on her next turn she should be able to sink it, Dorian finally breaks.

“Enough!” he snaps, club thumping on the ground for added emphasis. “There is no way you haven't done this before.”

Kyra laughs, bright and easy. “I have never set foot on a golf course of any sort in my life,” she tells him. When Dorian continues to glare at her, she shrugs. “It’s just physics - conservation of momentum, angles, that sort of thing. I’ve known how to figure that out since I was eighteen.” She frowns at the course for a moment in private irritation. “I mean, the green is hardly flat and the collisions are far from perfectly elastic, but it’s close enough to get a good approximation of where the ball’s going to go. From there it’s just a matter of having the coordination to make that be where you want it.”

Dorian and Cassandra share a long look that Kyra can’t see well enough to interpret and she considers making a smart-ass comment about them “bonding in adversity” before she thinks better of it.

“Remind me never to play pool against you,” Dorian mutters as he lines up his shot. Kyra’s grin this time is sharper, her teeth flashing in the light.

“Dorian, dearest, if we ever played pool you can rest assured that I would _destroy_ you.”

He swears when he hits the ball at exactly the wrong angle, sending it careening off to one side instead of progressing toward the hole. He levels a finger at her.

“You did that on purpose,” he accuses and she rolls her eyes.

“Why would I bother? It’s not like you’re in any danger of threatening my lead.”

Dorian’s eyes narrow but thankfully Cassandra intercedes before things can get ugly. “You have played pool but not miniature golf?” she asks. Their play continues around their conversation, the three of them rotating through their turns. “That seems odd.”

Kyra shrugs. “I was a scholarship kid when I was in undergrad. The school paid tuition, room and board, and books, but we were on our own for anything else. We had to find some way to make pocket money.” She lets out a triumphant “ha!” as her ball falls into the hole, only then noticing that she has started speaking in plural. Dorian’s reaction keeps her from dwelling too much on it.

“No. I refuse to believe that you - _you_ , Kyra Lavellan, quiet little Chantry mouse, or whatever it is Dalish have instead of Chantries - hustled pool.” Judging by the furrow of Cassandra’s brow and the purse of her lips, he is not the only one struggling to wrap his mind around the idea. Kyra hops up to sit on a railing while she waits for the others to complete the hole, refusing to think too hard on the memories the conversation is pulling to the surface.

“It wasn’t my idea,” she admits. “I just turned out to be a better player than he was. He had the same problem you do, Cassandra - didn’t know how to curb his own strength.”

“He?” Cassandra asks but the gentle tone tells Kyra that she already has her suspicions as to the answer. Kyra shoots her a crooked half-smile.

“Rion,” she confirms. Then she turns to Dorian, dismissing the topic entirely. She isn’t going to think about it. Not now. She can’t quite believe she brought it up in the first place. “You about done yet? Bull’s group is leaving us in the dust and I blame you entirely.”

It is an exaggeration - the other group is barely more than a hole ahead - but it has the desired effect of changing the subject.

Unfortunately it has another effect as well, one Kyra does not start to notice until the next hole. She makes her shot as usual but by the time play comes back around to her all she can do is stare. Though she cannot recall seeing anyone or anything come near her ball, which had been placed to give her a fairly simple shot through the spinning arms of a brilliant blue windmill replica, it is now in the corner where the base of the windmill meets the edge of the green, a full three feet away from where it had been. There is no way she will make it through the windmill this turn. She rounds on Dorian.

“What did you do? she demands, certain that he messed with it somehow, then pauses as she actually considers it. With the skill level Dorian has shown so far, there is no way he would have been able to intentionally hit her ball exactly right to send it into the corner. Which means either he has been lying about his ability this entire time and throwing the game on purpose (which she cannot imagine - his ego wouldn’t allow it) or it was a really impressive coincidence.

She subsides into grumbles, playing through the hole without too many complaints. It is the first time Dorian manages to beat her and though she cannot figure out how he managed it, her suspicions linger.

One shot she can - reluctantly - write off as a fluke, luck favoring Dorian, but when his “luck” continues on to the next hole, she knows he is cheating. Somehow. It takes her two more holes to figure it out, two holes where her ball is never where she expects it to be. As she watches Cassandra’s swing, she catches movement out of the corner of her eye, a flash of bright green and her jaw drops in shock.

“Seriously?” she shrieks, eyes flicking from Dorian’s smirk to where his foot is carefully nudging her ball to one side. She storms over to him, making wrenching motions with her hands as though trying to strangle him from a distance.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, unrepentant, and she growls at him. She contemplates whether kicking him in the shin would be considered an overreaction and whether she should care even if it is when she is distracted by Dorian’s poorly-muffled cackles. “I was wondering when you were going to notice. You seem a bit distracted. Is everything all right, my dear?”

Right. Overreaction it is. She moves toward him with a snarled “oh, I am going to _murder_ you,” when a steel band drops around her shoulders and pulls her to a stop. She frowns and looks down to realize that, no, that’s Cassandra’s arm wrapped around her, hand on one shoulder and forearm against her collarbone, and all thoughts of Dorian promptly flee in favor of this new development.

“Enough,” Cassandra interrupts, close enough for her breath to ruffle the hair over Kyra’s ear, and she swallows heavily.

“...’kay,” she gets out, voice weak. Anything more eloquent than that is beyond her at the moment and it is not until Cassandra releases her that any degree of rational thought returns.

“Is there a problem?” Cassandra asks Dorian as Kyra tries to regain her wits, a curl of amusement in her voice that makes Kyra suspect that she has figured out exactly what Dorian was up to. Though for a moment she wonders if perhaps Cassandra had been involved in his scheme, almost as soon as the thought occurs to her she writes it off as being ridiculous.

“The problem is that I have been _betrayed_ ,” she says, hand pressed over her heart and eyes wide in feigned distress, having recovered from her moment of...she’s going to call it distraction. It’s safer than any alternative. “Betrayed by my best friend, by the one man I thought I could trust.”

Cassandra raises an unimpressed eyebrow but Kyra can see the corner of her mouth tremble as she tries to conceal her amusement. Not that she’s looking at Cassandra’s mouth or anything.

She pouts. “Fine. Pavus is a cheating bastard and now I have to think up a suitable punishment for his moral shortcomings. Do you think we can get away with bringing back the stocks?”

Cassandra sighs and rolls her eyes heavenward with a beseeching expression, as though asking her Maker for strength. “It’s like dealing with children,” she mutters and at her words Kyra sticks her tongue out at Dorian, just to be ornery. “Would you stop baiting him?” Cassandra demands. When Dorian laughs she turns her disapproving frown on him in turn. “And you: play fair or do not play at all.” She glares at the both of them for a moment longer, daring them to protest. When they remain silent she storms away, though Kyra catches her “Maker preserve me, I sound like your mother” and has to fight off another round of giggles. She catches Dorian’s eye and reads his judgment in the careful arch of his eyebrow and the tilt of his moustache.

“Shut up,” she snaps, emphasizing her words with a glare that is meant to be threatening but undoubtedly falls far short, before she follows after Cassandra, apologies falling from her lips.

Perhaps agreeing to the evening had not been the _worst_ idea Dorian has ever had, she acknowledges. Not that she’ll ever say as much to him.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay in getting this chapter up. Finals week has rendered me incapable of any sort of coherent thought.
> 
> With that in mind, fair warning that while I did manage to read through this in search of typos and weird phrasings, I haven't slept in two days and so I have no guarantee that I actually caught them all. Feel free to point out any typos or mistakes so that I can get them fixed!

It takes over a week for Kyra to hear back from Cassandra regarding the meeting with her journalist contact. Her phone rings late Tuesday morning as she is in the middle of cataloging data in the lab and rather than take a break and lose the computer time that she'd had to book two weeks in advance, Kyra puts her phone on speaker and sets it next to her keyboard. Hopefully the tapping of keys won’t disrupt the conversation too much.

“Hey, Cassandra,” she greets, her eyes locked on the computer screen. “What can I do for you?”

“I spoke with Cullen,” Cassandra replies, forgoing pleasantries in favor of getting directly to the point. Kyra approves of this strategy - small talk is quite possibly the bane of her existence. “If you were serious in your offer, his friend has agreed to meet with me tonight.”

It takes Kyra a minute to even remember what day it is - she feels like she hasn’t left the lab in weeks, time blurring into a meaningless concept. Once she does, she hums in affirmation.

“Yeah, I’ve got the lab reserved until one but I’m flexible after that. When and where?”

“Seven o’clock, at the Fade.”

Kyra stops typing mid-word, certain she has misheard. “You’re kidding.”

“Apparently he is a fan.” Irritation underscores Cassandra’s words, as though she is distressed by the thought of enjoying the same thing as her mystery contact. Kyra laughs.

“Well, I’ve got to give him credit for good taste, then,” she says, earning her a disgusted snort. “What? They make damn good coffee. And don’t try to argue - I’ve seen the way you attack the pastries Cole gives you.”

“That is not the point,” Cassandra protests and Kyra grins. It’s the closest to agreement that she will get on the matter and she counts it as a victory.

“Of course not. Need me to bring anything other than my delightful self?”

That draws a short huff of laughter from Cassandra. “That should be more than enough,” she says and Kyra can hear the smile in her voice. “I should let you get back to work.”

“Ugh, please don’t,” Kyra mutters, making a face at her computer screen that she knows Cassandra can’t see. “I’m collating data and it is the single-most mind-numbing task I have ever had to do. You are more than welcome to distract me for as long as you want.” She can talk and work at the same time, at least when it comes to this. Not that Kyra expects Cassandra to take her up on the offer, not in the middle of the day when she undoubtedly has her own work to do. It comes as a surprise then, when instead of ending the conversation Cassandra gives a curious little hum.

“Very well. Tell me what you’re working on.”

Kyra blinks down at the phone for a moment, trying to process that. “What, seriously?”

“You are not the only one embroiled in tedium at the moment,” Cassandra admits and it pulls a chuckle from Kyra.

“Ah, paperwork: the bane of all occupations everywhere,” she says with a smile. “Fair enough. You sure that’s the topic you want to choose, though? Ask Dorian - once you let me start talking about my research I sort of don’t know how to shut up about it. Ever.”

There is another low hum of a laugh from Cassandra that does funny things to Kyra’s insides. “If you would prefer I could describe the case I am finishing - it is an exciting tale of falsified time logs; I’m certain you would find it enthralling.”

Kyra sticks her tongue out at the phone in a pointless display of protest. “Okay, okay, I yield! Research it is. Don’t blame me if I bore you to sleep, though.” Her lips twist into a thoughtful frown. “Have I told you anything about my doctoral project before?”

“Nothing beyond the fact of its existence,” Cassandra replies and she actually sounds curious, which is not a reaction Kyra usually encounters: most hear the word “physics” and change the subject as soon as possible. She grins, lower lip caught between her teeth.

“All right, then. So basically I’m studying galactic evolution in small clusters...”

Their rambling conversation saves Kyra’s sanity though the end of her lab session, the discussion wandering away from her research to meander through a whole host of largely-unrelated topics, from books to history to a critique of the modern superhero (and Kyra may never recover from her shock at learning that Cassandra is well-versed enough in comic lore to hold an intelligent conversation on the subject, a fact that Cassandra blames entirely on her fanboy of a roommate). She does not realize how quickly time is passing until the lab door swings open to reveal the frowning face of the student who had booked the lab after her and a glace at the clock tells her that she was supposed to have cleared out ten minutes ago. Even then Kyra is loathe to end the call, but they both have actual things to do, especially if Kyra is going to take the evening off to help deal with Cassandra’s journalist. After confirming their plans, she reluctantly hangs up and forces herself to focus on making room for the huffy human shooting her death glares from the doorway: she will see Cassandra soon enough.

 

* * *

 

 

She ends up getting to the Fade ten minutes early, too afraid of being late and making Cassandra wait for her to delay any longer. Luckily she is not the only one early - when she arrives, Cassandra is already waiting for her outside the coffee shop’s door. For some definition of “waiting”, at least: she paces along the sidewalk, wearing a scowl that ensures no one tries to approach her.

No one but Kyra, that is. She ignores the angry glower Cassandra has fixed on the world at large and comes to stand beside her, hands tucked into the pockets of her heavy winter coat. Cassandra stops her pacing as soon as she sees her, fierce expression melting into relief at the sight of her.

“You made it,” she says, like she had expected Kyra to bail on her.

“‘Of course I did,” Kyra replies with a shrug, refusing to make a big deal of it. “Any reason you’re out here in the cold instead of inside where it’s warm?”

That brings the scowl back to Cassandra’s face, a furrow of her brow and a twist of her lips that Kyra wants to kiss away.

“He is already here,” she grumbles, as though this is some personal insult. “I did not want to have to deal with him any sooner than I had to.”

Kyra chuckles and links her arm through Cassandra’s, pulling her toward the door.

“Come on, then. Let’s get this over with.”

To Kyra’s surprise, Cassandra allows herself to be led, unresisting as Kyra gets them through the front door and into the Fade itself. It is not difficult to determine which of the handful of patrons is Cassandra’s contact - as soon as she catches sight of the dwarf by the register, leaning against the counter as he talks with Cole, Cassandra tenses, her jaw clenched and shoulders set like she is preparing to go into battle.

Kyra cocks her head to the side as she observes the dwarf in the moments before he notices their presence. He is a rakish sort of handsome, she supposes, scruffy-cheeked with shaggy blond hair pulled away from his face and a clearly-broken nose that somehow adds to his charm. His dress shirt is a deep maroon and he has left nearly half the buttons undone to reveal a well-muscled chest and a truly staggering amount of chest hair. Kyra wonders if the thick pelt is what allows him to get away with running around half-dressed in this cold - does the chest hair keep him warm? Or does he button up outside and then unbutton again once he has reached his destination? The mental image has her biting her lip on a laugh and when Cassandra huffs at her reaction the noise draws the attention of both dwarf and barista.

“Seeker!” the dwarf says when he sees them, mouth widening into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his amber eyes, eyes that flit from Cassandra to Kyra and back again, calculating. “And who’s this? Some other poor soul you’ve bullied into helping?”

Kyra winces: ten seconds in and this meeting is already speeding toward utter disaster. This should be fun. “I’m a friend of Cassandra’s,” she offers and the dwarf’s gaze zeroes in on her. In the background Cole ducks away to prepare their drinks and Kyra cannot decide if she is thankful or not - she could use an ally here but she does not know if Cole’s version of “helping” would do anything of the sort.

“A friend, huh? Didn’t think the Seeker knew what those were.”

A low growl rumbles from Cassandra’s throat and Kyra gets a very bad feeling about the rest of this meeting. When she had told Cassandra she would try to prevent murder, she hadn’t actually thought that was something she should be worried about. She is already starting to revise that opinion.

“The things you do not know about me, Varric, could fill a book. Preferably one written by a more skilled author than you.”

Kyra lets her arm slide out of Cassandra’s in order to step between them and hopefully diffuse some of the tension crackling in the air (though she does not hold out much hope for success, not with her limited social graces) when Cassandra’s words actually process.

“Wait, Varric? As in, Varric Tethras?” she looks wide-eyed at the dwarf. “You’re Varric Tethras, author of _Hard in Hightown_ and _Tales of the Champion_.” And _Swords and Shields_ , Cassandra’s favorite, though she knows better than to reveal that particular fact to the writer in question. This new revelation makes their antagonism even more interesting. What could have happened to set Cassandra at the throat of her favorite author?

Varric laughs, a low, rumbling chuckle, and pushes away from the counter to sweep into a flourish of a bow. “Along with a variety of other, less popular works, yes, though I mostly stick with journalism these days. And you are?”

“Kyra Lavellan.” She holds out a hand to Varric, ignoring the way Cassandra bristles at her side. She brought Kyra here to keep the peace: she doesn’t get to complain about her doing exactly that. Or trying at any rate.

“So how’d you get dragged into this?” Varric asks as he shakes her hand, grip firm and blessedly short. Kyra shrugs.

“Didn’t have anything better to do tonight so I figured I’d tag along,” she says. Somehow she doesn’t think Cassandra would appreciate it if she gave the real reason for her presence and Varric is kind enough not to push. Though he does give her a wry smile that tells her that he isn’t fooled by her attempted deflection.

Cole chooses that moment to return with Kyra and Cassandra’s drinks, along with yet another pastry (judging by the blueberries on top, this one is meant solely for Cassandra). Before Kyra can react Cassandra has stepped forward to pay for the order, thanking Cole and pressing Kyra’s drink into her hand. Without a word to Varric she stalks over to a table - Kyra notices that she avoids their usual spot despite the fact that there is plenty of room there for three people - and Varric shakes his head with a quiet chuckle. He grabs his own cup from the counter and gestures for Kyra to proceed him.

“Shall we follow her highness, then, Snapdragon?”

Kyra quirks an eyebrow at him but starts walking: she does not want Cassandra to think that she is abandoning her in favor of Varric. “Snapdragon, really?” she asks on the way and Varric shrugs.

“I like nicknames,” he says. “You know anything about flower symbolism? Snapdragons are deception. And look at you - you look like one good gust of wind would knock you out, but you’ve clearly got guts if you’re voluntarily spending your time with the Seeker. Guts, and possibly a death wish.”

“I heard that, Varric,” Cassandra snaps as Kyra slides into the seat beside her, Varric sitting opposite them.

“You were meant to.” He pauses for a moment as he gets comfortable in his seat, elbow on the table and feet not quite reaching the ground. Cassandra had - no doubt intentionally - chosen one of the cafe’s less dwarf-friendly tables, though Varric declines to comment on it. “Now, I doubt you asked me here for the pleasure of my company, so why don’t you tell me what this is really about?”

Cassandra’s eyes narrow and Kyra nudges her foot under the table in silent warning. They don’t want to make an enemy of Varric here - at least, not more of one than he is already. And for all that Kyra is desperately curious to know what happened to bring them to this level of antagonism, she also knows how unlikely it is that she will ever find out.

Cassandra takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring as she releases it, and regards Varric over her coffee cup.

“I need your help,” she says, lips twisted as though she has just tasted something foul. Varric’s eyes widen but he shows no other signs of his surprise.

“I’m sorry, Seeker, I must have misheard you. I could have sworn you just asked me - me, a manipulative con-artist who wouldn’t recognize the truth if it bit me on the ass - for help.” He tilts his head to the side, contemplative. “Or am I misremembering? Did you say ‘manipulative’ or ‘lying’?”

Cassandra scowls and Kyra wonders if she should step in. She just has no idea what she could say or do that would be at all helpful at this junction.

“This is serious, Varric,” Cassandra begins but Varric cuts her off.

“Yeah, skip the recruitment speech, Seeker. If it’s got you coming to me, it’s real and it’s big. If you think little things like vicious antagonism and your disturbingly violent tendencies are going to keep me from a story like that, you don’t know me very well at all.”

This is apparently not the right thing to say - Cassandra’s brows draw together and fury lights her eyes.

“This isn’t about a _story_ ,” she snarls, hand clenched around her cup so hard that Kyra fears she will tear the fragile paper and send hot coffee spilling out across the table. Varric rolls his eyes.

“Everything’s about a story. And you know that or you wouldn’t have asked for me,” he points out, unphased by Cassandra’s ire. “I’m a journalist - stories are what I do. If you were looking for someone to help you with legwork, you’d have asked Curly.”

At his words the fight seems to drain from Cassandra and she sighs, a sound more exhausted than annoyed, and leans forward to prop her forearms on the table, her head bowed. Kyra’s fingers itch to touch, to help, to soothe, but she doesn’t know if she is allowed. If it were just them, or if they were with Dorian or Cassandra’s friends, she would reach out without hesitation, put a hand on her shoulder or her arm in a silent attempt at comfort. But here, in front of someone Cassandra clearly distrusts and dislikes, the rules are different and she no longer knows where the line between what is acceptable and what isn't lies.

With a deep breath Cassandra looks up and fixes Varric with a sharp stare.

“So be it,” she says, voice flat. Kyra cannot tell if this is a good sign or a bad one - Cassandra seems less inclined to reach across the table to stab Varric, true, but that does not mean much. And as good as Kyra has become at interpreting Cassandra’s moods when they are alone, this is a side of the woman she has never seen before. Until this meeting, she had never realized just how much softer Cassandra is around her. Here in the cafe with Varric she is on edge, tense, like she is ready to leap into action at any  moment. When it is just the two of them she seems...relaxed, more at ease with the world in a way that Kyra had never even noticed before this.

Which is probably not something she needs to be dwelling on just now, though she files the thought away for further consideration later, after this entire encounter is over.

“You asked for my assistance once,” Cassandra says and Varric shifts forward in his seat, attention caught.

“I did,” he agrees, voice carefully neutral, but Kyra can see the spark of interest in his eyes. “You swore at me and threatened to shoot me if I ever so much as looked at you again. Followed by the aforementioned ‘lying con-artist’ comment.”

Cassandra winces but Kyra has a difficult time suppressing her laughter. She can picture the altercation Varric describes: an angry, short-tempered Cassandra with no patience for the nosy journalist in search of a story.

“It would appear that your accusations -”

“You mean my ‘malicious lies’?”

Cassandra growls, a low rumble in her throat and Kyra nudges her again. Hazel eyes flick to Kyra briefly, the first real acknowledgment of her presence since the three of them sat down, before Cassandra’s jaw tightens. Without looking at Varric, she spits out, “Dammit, Varric, would you let me speak? Your _accusations_ may have had some basis in fact.”

Kyra expects Varric to gloat - judging by the interactions she has observed over the last ten minutes, that seems to be how the two of them work. She does _not_ expect him to slump in his seat, close his eyes, and swear.

“Well, shit,” he says and Cassandra makes a quiet noise of agreement, the closest they have come to getting along all evening. While Varric processes her pronouncement, Cassandra fills Kyra in. Sort of.

“About a year ago, Varric came to me looking for a source for his investigation into possible corruption in the Skyhold Police Department. I believed him to be nothing but a mud-slinging journalist with no goal beyond starting controversy and refused to help him.”

Kyra cracks a grin. “Yeah, that part I picked up on myself,” she teases and Cassandra rolls her eyes, though the corner of her mouth curls into a hint of a smile.

“She’s really underplaying it,” Varric interrupts, watching the both of them with an odd expression on his face. “I wasn’t kidding about the whole ‘threatening to shoot me’ thing. And if you had bothered to hear me out instead of throwing a book at my head, Seeker, I might have been able to share the evidence I had.”

“Because your ‘evidence’ has always been so trustworthy,” Cassandra snaps back. Varric just shrugs, a casual motion that Kyra does not believe for a second. He is building up to something and she suspects Cassandra is setting him up exactly as he wants. She cannot quite wrap her mind around the thought of someone _intentionally_ provoking an already-angry Cassandra - that seems like the last thing any sane person would do - but she has no other explanations for Varric’s current behavior. And he accused _her_ of having a death wish.

“Considering my source on this one?” he says, and here it comes. “Yeah, you probably would have listened. Seeing as you live with the guy.”

Cassandra frowns, gaze sharp on Varric’s face. “What? Cullen? What does he have to do with this?” There is a note of warning in her voice, a quiet caution that if she does not find Varric’s answer satisfactory then he will not like the consequences. Varric grins in satisfaction.

“Seeker, I’m a professional. You don’t really think I picked this story up on a whim, do you? Curly came to me, had some suspicions about the way things were going. But he’d been out too long and didn’t have the proof to back up his claim. That’s why we came to you.”

It takes Kyra a moment to realize that “Curly” is a reference to Cassandra’s roommate - what had she said his name was? Cullen? - and she wonders if Varric’s penchant for nicknames has anything to do with his journalist’s need to conceal the identity of his sources. Pseudonyms must be easier when you don’t call _anyone_ by their real name.

Cassandra’s voice, harsh and defensive, draws Kyra’s attention back to the...does it count as a discussion if it is mostly snarling across a table at each other? For lack of anything better to call it, she's going to go with that.

“Why would he go to you?”

“You mean instead of you?” Varric shrugs again and sips his drink, the picture of a man at his ease. “How should I know? Maybe he was afraid you’d react the same way to him as you did to me. Maybe he didn’t want to get you in trouble with the brass - you still worked for them, after all, and they can do a hell of a lot worse to an employee than they can to a freelancer.”

For some reason, Kyra had not even considered the danger Cassandra is putting herself in before this and Varric’s words send a jolt of belated fear through her, a tightness in her throat that threatens to choke her. _How_ had this not occurred to her? Of course digging into the affairs of the fucking _Chief of Police_ isn’t going to merit just a slap on the wrist if she gets caught. Oh, Creators, Kyra is going to be sick.

Oblivious to her friend's sudden panic, Cassandra picks up her fork and stabs it into her pastry, taking out her frustration with their tablemate on the innocent snack.

“He never mentioned this to me. Not once.”

“Hey, that’s not on me. Take it up with Curly.” Varric watches her destroy the pastry, a degree of wariness entering his eyes that Kyra cannot believe took this long to manifest. It is like he has been intentionally winding Cassandra up and only now that he has succeeded does he realize that he has no exit plan in place. He hastily switches the subject back to something a little less likely to drive Cassandra to murder him. “Anyway, we had to shelve it after a few weeks when we couldn’t turn up any hard proof.”

Cassandra’s head snaps up and she fixes Varric with a sharp stare, eyes narrowed. “And if you had that proof?” she asks, voice settling into something more neutral than Kyra has heard from her all evening. Varric returns her stare, caution in his eyes but his entire body leaning toward them in a silent display of interest.

“What exactly are you suggesting, Seeker?”

Cassandra quirks an eyebrow and takes a drink of her coffee. Now that she has taken control of the conversation, steering it where she wants it instead of following Varric’s lead, she seems calmer, less inclined to try to throw something at the dwarf across the table. Or possibly skip the middle step and just throw the dwarf.

“If someone were to provide you with solid, irrefutable evidence of high-level corruption in the Skyhold police force, what would you do with it?”

A self-satisfied smile crawls across her face as Varric’s jaw drops, his entire expression blanking out as he processes her words and the offer implied within.

“Are you kidding?” he demands. His voice rises high enough that Kyra half-expects it to crack, that suave demeanor shattered. “My publisher would eat that up. I could get it in every paper and magazine within a hundred miles overnight.”

“And the consequences of exposing such damning information about powerful individuals?” Cassandra asks, still carefully neutral, unwilling to get invested until she is certain of success. _This_ is the Cassandra Kyra knows and her return eases the tension in Kyra’s shoulders. Varric chuckles.

“Seeker, I didn’t get into journalism to kiss ass,” he points out, a light in his eyes. He is quickly regaining his bearings, which Kyra does not think is a bad thing. For something this insane, this dangerous, he should be in full possession of himself when he agrees, rather than reeling from shock. Anything else would be a level of manipulation with which Kyra is not even remotely comfortable. “If you can get me proof, I can get you a story. And damn the consequences.”

Cassandra studies Varric for a long, tense moment, weighing his words. Kyra mentally urges her to accept what Varric offers - this is why she contacted him, why they are here at all. This is exactly what she wanted. She just hopes Cassandra is willing to overlook her issues with Varric long enough to accept that.

When Cassandra nods, slow and solemn, Kyra lets out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “That is an...acceptable arrangement.”

Varric grins, the smile of a shark scenting blood in the water. Or, Kyra amends, of a writer sensing a story. He holds out one hand toward Cassandra, broad-palmed with crooked fingers that speak of a history of breaks. Cassandra’s lips purse but she takes the extended hand, grip tight enough that Kyra wonders if she is _trying_ to injure him, newly-minted alliance be damned, or if intimidating Varric is just instinct at this point.

Thankfully Varric does not stick around to bicker now that they have reached an understanding. He exchanges contact information with a reluctant Cassandra, throws Kyra a conspiratorial wink, and saunters out the door. As soon as he is out of sight, Cassandra drops her head into her hands with a groan.

“That dwarf is infuriating,” she grumbles. Kyra laughs lightly, more at ease now that it is just the two of them.

“You survived,” she points out as she drains the last of her drink. “And you didn’t even need me here, after all.”

Cassandra turns her head enough to regard Kyra with a gaze that is far softer than it has been all evening, gentle and secret.

“Yes, I did,” she admits and Kyra refuses to read too much into that simple statement, a task made immeasurably more difficult when Cassandra continues speaking. “I am not too proud to admit that Varric brings out the worst in me. Your presence makes it...easier, somehow.”

Oh, Creators. Kyra knows she is blushing red enough to shame a tomato and she prays Cassandra does not mention it - it is too much to hope for that she does not notice at all. Her heart aches in her chest at both the words and the warmth in that hazel gaze and she has to tear her eyes away from Cassandra’s before they reveal things she would rather Cassandra not know. Oh, she is in _so_ much trouble.

“Glad I could help,” she mumbles, the words spoken more toward the table than Cassandra, who sighs in quiet amusement. They sit in companionable silence for a moment, though there is a strain in the set of Cassandra’s shoulders that lingers despite Varric’s departure. With a tired sigh, Kyra pushes herself to her feet.

“Come on,” she says when Cassandra frowns a question at her. “You’re wound tighter than a two-dollar watch and sitting here drinking caffeine isn’t going to help.”

Cassandra quirks an eyebrow. “And you have a better idea?” she asks, but she does rise and begin gathering their trash from the table.

Kyra has many ideas on that, actually, but the majority of them are nothing she is willing to say out loud. Instead she just shrugs.

“Beyond getting out of here? Not really. I figured we’d make it up as we went.”

Cassandra shakes her head as she throws the detritus from their meeting into the garbage.

“Very well,” she says in a put-upon tone that does not fool Kyra for a moment. “Lead the way.”


	17. Chapter 17

They end up wandering aimlessly away from the Fade in the direction of the river, Kyra bundled up against the cold with her nose buried in her scarf and her gloved hands hidden in the sleeves of her coat. At her side Cassandra seems unaffected by the mountain air, a red flush across her cheeks the only sign that she even feels the cold at all.

“Are you all right?” Cassandra asks after about twenty minutes, watching Kyra with an expression that hovers in the area between amused and concerned, and Kyra lifts her face from the protective warmth of her scarf to stick her tongue out at her.

“I’m just peachy,” she mutters as she hides her nose and mouth once more. “I hate mountains. Why the fuck did I think going to school in the mountains was a good idea? Could’ve gone to Rivain, instead: they don’t have to deal with the cold in Rivain.”

Cassandra chuckles, tipping her head back and turning her face toward the breeze coming in across the water as though to spite Kyra’s irritated tirade. The wind ruffles through the short locks of her hair and Kyra watches from the corner of her eye, hypnotized by the contented curve of her mouth and the way the streetlights throw shifting shadows across the sharp lines of her face.

“We do not have to stay out here,” Cassandra points out. She looks back at Kyra, who hastily attempts to act like she _wasn’t_ staring like a lovesick idiot. Which she isn’t. At all. She flashes Cassandra a cheerful smile.

“I’m good; just complaining for the sake of it.”

They reach the riverfront park, a wide boulevard lined on one side with carefully-tended trees, bare-leafed from the winter dormancy, and on the other side with the broad swathe of the river, slow-moving and swollen with the spring melt. Cassandra leads the way toward the chest-high wooden railing that marks the edge of the winding sidewalk and leans against it, staring out over the deceptively calm surface of the river. Kyra moves to join her, shoulder to shoulder with their elbows pressed together on top of the railing. The reflection of the full moon shimmers on the water and the sheer romance of the scene sends a sharp ache of longing through Kyra’s heart. For all that she is not deluded enough to think this is a date, it is so very easy to imagine how it might go if it were. Moonlit walks by the river are the stuff of romance novels, the cheesy ones Cassandra is secretly so fond of, and it takes no great leap for Kyra to imagine the way this evening would play out in one of those.

Cassandra’s hand would twine with Kyra’s on the railing, she decides, and despite the beauty of the view before them they would have difficulty keeping their eyes off each other. Kyra would lean against Cassandra instead of the railing, soaking in the heat of her where they are pressed together from knee to shoulder, and they would trade soft, wind-chilled kisses as they watch the moon rise, cool lips and warm mouths, every brush of tongues sending sparks shivering along Kyra’s spine. They would, if...

Kyra wraps her coat tighter around herself to ward off a shiver that has nothing to do with the weather. She forces herself to finish the thought: if Cassandra were interested in her. Which she isn’t and she never will be and daydreaming otherwise is not going to do either of them any good. Maybe she is getting too close, Kyra acknowledges. Maybe she should back off, at least for a little while, re-center herself and regain her bearings. It might be better for the both of them in the long run and would save her the heartache of pining after a straight woman.

“I want to thank you,” Cassandra says, interrupting Kyra’s train of thought. She blinks a few times in an attempt to clear her head, turning toward Cassandra to see her already looking back. Has she been watching her this entire time? Surely not.

“For what?”

“For being there today.” Even in the dim light Kyra can see the fondness in Cassandra’s eyes, the soft smile on her lips. Damn the woman. There is no way she is going to be able to distance herself, Kyra acknowledges with a defeated sigh. Her willpower is not that strong. “It did not involve you and yet you came anyway, because I asked you. I just wanted you to know that I appreciate it.”

Oh, fuck, Kyra is in so much trouble. “Any time,” she says in lieu of the string of swears dancing at the tip of her tongue. Subject change. Mythal have mercy, she needs a subject change before she does something she will regret. “Though if you truly want to express your appreciation you could indulge my curiosity a little.” The meeting with Varric should be a safe enough topic. She hopes.

Cassandra snorts. “I should have guessed. Very well: ask your questions, though I make no promise to answer them.”

“Of course you don’t.” Kyra considers it, lip caught between her teeth. In truth she does not have all that many questions - at least, not that she thinks there is any chance Cassandra will answer. “What was he saying about your roommate?”

Cassandra’s nose wrinkles with her frown, which Kyra absolutely does not find cute. Not in the slightest. “Cullen.” She shakes her head, though whether in confusion or denial Kyra cannot tell. “We were partners when I first came to Skyhold about ten years ago. He quit the force four years later and left the city for a time. When he came back he needed a place to stay and since I had a spare room and we had always gotten on well, I offered it to him. We have been living together ever since.”

“Why did he leave?” Kyra asks, trying not to think too hard about this apparently ideal living situation of Cassandra’s. Jealousy is not an attractive trait, she reminds herself, especially when she has no right to be jealous at all. Not only does she have no idea what kind of relationship Cassandra and Cullen have, but it isn’t any of her business, regardless.

“For personal reasons that are unrelated to our current concerns,” Cassandra says in response. “He works as a private detective now, which I assume is how he ended up caught up in Varric’s mess.”

Kyra cracks a smile at the reminder of the dwarf who seems to be the bane of Cassandra’s existence. “Ah, yes. _Varric_.”

Cassandra cuts her off with a glare before she can even get the next question out. “No.”

Kyra’s lower lip sticks out in a pout, eyes wide and pleading, but Cassandra is unmoved and eventually she subsides with a huff.

“Really?” she prods. “I find out that not only are you on a first name basis with your favorite author - which you never bothered to share with me even when we marathoned his terrible movies and frankly I am wounded by this lack of trust - but you would also happily punch him in the face and I don’t get to know why?”

“Precisely.”

That draws a quiet laugh from Kyra as she leans into Cassandra just enough that their shoulders bump. Well, Kyra’s shoulder bumps Cassandra’s bicep, which is about as close as their respective heights will allow.

“Fine,” she concedes with a sigh. “Spoilsport. Then the defense rests.”

Cassandra regards her with an arched eyebrow, the picture of amused skepticism. “Truly? Those are your only questions?”

Kyra shrugs, an easy roll of her shoulders, and turns her gaze to the water. It really is lovely, she notes, even with the cold.

“I’m pretty good at putting the pieces together on my own,” she points out. “You’re going to get Varric the evidence he needs to run his story, bypassing the risk of approaching anyone who might actually be involved in the whole mess. He publishes the story as widely as possible to make a cover-up difficult at best. You’re counting on a public outcry that will necessitate a transparent investigation led by someone higher than your Chief of Police - if I had to guess, I’d say you’re hoping for fall-out on a national level, but I have no idea how that works beyond what _CSI_ taught me, so...”

She trails off to the sound of Cassandra’s quiet hum of amusement. “That is...largely correct, yes. Though depending on how high the corruption spreads it is possible that I will have to rely on Vivienne to apply political pressure where necessary in order to truly accomplish anything.”

It takes Kyra a moment to place the name before she remembers their first meeting and her introduction to Vivienne de Fer, the politician nicknamed “the Lady of Iron” and friend of Cassandra’s. She frowns as a thought occurs to her.

“Why didn’t you just go to her in the first place,” she asks, “instead of dealing with someone you can barely stand? A person in Madame de Fer’s position should have the power to help you.”

Cassandra rubs the back of her neck with a tired sigh. “Vivienne is a friend, yes, but she is also an elected official. A politician.” The note of distaste in the last words makes Kyra smile - by now she is more than familiar with Cassandra’s disdain for political maneuvering. “A very _good_ politician. Her power is dependent upon the goodwill of others and that limits what she is able to do without ruining her career. Varric has no such restrictions - even without journalism he already has a lucrative career as a fiction writer.”

“Makes sense,” Kyra murmurs, thinking about what Cassandra has said. She twists her fingers together on the railing, thick gloves shielding her hands from the biting wind. “That whole ‘gathering the evidence’ thing,” she begins, eyes fixed on her hands, the water, anything that isn’t Cassandra’s face. “It’s dangerous, isn’t it?” It is, she knows it is, especially after Cassandra’s last words, but she needs to hear her say it.

To her credit, Cassandra does not try to sugarcoat it, offers no false promises or easy lies. Kyra does not honestly think her capable of such a thing, which is one of the many things she adores about her. “It is.” She does not elaborate, just waits for whatever Kyra has to say.

There is a part of her that wants to beg Cassandra to let it go, to keep herself out of the line of fire and not antagonize powerful people with few morals. To stay safe. But Kyra knows that isn’t how Cassandra works - she isn’t going to rest until she has seen this thing through one way or the other. If she were the kind of person who could be persuaded away from doing the right thing, regardless of personal risk, then she would not be the Cassandra that Kyra has grown so fond of. Besides, if she tried Cassandra would likely just yell at her. A lot. And as attractive as Cassandra is when she is angry, Kyra would really rather avoid that. So she just quirks a half-smile and says, “Be careful, would you? I’ve gotten kind of attached and it would be a pain in the ass to go through the trouble of finding a new friend if you run off and get yourself killed.”

“I’ll do my best,” Cassandra promises. Kyra risks a glance at her from the corner of her eye to see the edge of her mouth curl into a pleased smile.

They stand quietly, stealing a moment of peace there by the waterfront. The moon inches ever higher in the sky and even though she is beginning to shiver in the mountain air Kyra cannot bring herself to break the comfortable silence. Cassandra is loose-limbed and relaxed at her side, so different than she had been in the cafe not an hour before that Kyra almost cannot reconcile the two, and close enough that when Cassandra’s phone vibrates in her pocket Kyra can feel it.

Cassandra grumbles at the interruption and they shuffle around so that she can reach her phone, Kyra stepping away to give her room and swearing at the gust of wind against her newly-exposed side. Gloves stripped off to allow her to thumb through the text message, Cassandra’s irritated muttering fades to a frown and a disgusted scoff at whatever she reads.

“Bad news?” Kyra asks as she leans her elbow on top of the railing, body turned to face Cassandra.

Cassandra scowls. “Leliana,” she mutters, the ease of the previous moment nowhere to be found. The jab of her thumb against the home button of her phone is vicious. “The wedding is in just over a month and she is _insufferable_ and will not acc-” She stops speaking mid-word and spins on her heel to face Kyra, mouth a thoughtful frown. “What are your thoughts on weddings?”

Kyra tilts her head to the side as she considers it, thrown by the abrupt conversational shift and at a loss as to where Cassandra is going with this. “I don’t really have any?” she offers, hesitant. “The clan had a handful of them that I remember and they were nice enough, I suppose. I liked the dancing?”

“Would you be interested in going to Leliana and Josephine’s with me?”

If Kyra has been drinking anything she would have done a magnificent spit-take. Instead she manages a “ _what?_ ” that she will forever deny bears any resemblance to a squeak.

“Leliana has been harassing me since I sent my RSVP,” Cassandra says with a shrug, as though Kyra is not on the verge of freaking the fuck out not twelve inches away from her. “She refuses to accept that I do not wish to bring a date to the point of offering to set me up with one of her friends, despite the fact that I would much prefer my own company to suffering through that of some slack-jawed idiot for the entire evening. I blame whatever instinct drives those in happy relationships to push their unattached friends toward the same, regardless of said friend’s personal preference. That being said, I find I would also prefer your company to my own.”

The comment cuts through Kyra’s rising panic enough to pull a laugh from her. “Coming from you, that’s high praise, indeed.”

Cassandra smirks, a brief curl of her mouth nearly lost in the darkness. “I thought so. And while I am not averse to fighting Leliana on this for as long as necessary if you are not interested, if you are it would have the added benefit of getting her off my back for the duration.”

“Which is Cassandra-speak for ‘come to my friends’ big gay wedding with me and keep me from throwing one of the brides into her own cake,’ isn’t it?” Kyra asks, though she does not truly expect an answer. “What am I, your personal impulse control?” Cassandra rolls her eyes and Kyra considers it.

Objectively, it is a terrible idea. It is, in fact, the exact opposite of distancing herself in order to regain her senses. There is no possible way for it to end at all well - _Elgar’nan_ , she is having enough trouble controlling her stupid hormones and her stupid crush on a fucking _walk;_  how much worse would a wedding be? She doubts she would even make it to the reception before doing something monumentally ill-advised. No, the smart, sane thing would be to laugh it off, refuse the invitation and wish Cassandra the best of luck in duking it out with Leliana. Or suggesting she drag Cullen or Bull along instead. But Kyra has never been very good at doing the smart thing when Cassandra Pentaghast is involved and with one look at her hopeful expression she knows she will not say no. She heaves a sigh, already cursing herself.

“I’m gonna need a dress, aren’t I?” she asks and Cassandra’s answering smile is breathtaking. Oh yeah, she is in _so_ much trouble.

As Cassandra gives her the details - the when and the where of it - Kyra’s fingers itch for her phone. She needs to talk to Dorian. Preferably soon, to get him to tell her what a fucking idiot she is. _Someone_ needs to be the voice of reason here and if the last few minutes are any judge, that someone is not going to be Kyra.

The evening winds to a close from there, the two of them making their way back toward the Fade’s parking lot. Despite the relatively short distance between Kyra’s apartment and the cafe, the numbness of her nose and the tips of her ears drives her to accept the ride Cassandra offers - spending the twenty minutes it would take her to get home dealing with the rapidly-dropping temperature does not sound like the greatest way to end the evening. As she climbs into the passenger’s seat of Cassandra’s car, she resolves to call Dorian the moment she gets home.

 

* * *

 

 

Dorian laughs at her, the bastard. Of course he does. She should have expected as much - and honestly she had, but who else was she supposed to call? Her social circle is somewhat limited these days.

“Oh, shut up,” she grumbles, flopping onto her bed and burying her face in her pillow. “You’re not helping.”

“Lavellan, dearest, _please_ tell me you did not call me looking for relationship advice,” Dorian says as his laughter subsides. She rolls over to grimace at the ceiling.

“That would imply that there was a relationship about which you could advise. Which there isn’t. And even if there were, I can think of far better places to turn for advice than you. Like Google.”

Dorian snorts. “Then why _did_ you call?”

“Looking for advice on how to stop acting like a fucking idiot all the time?” she says, more a question than an answer. “Though now that I say it out loud like that it sounds like an even worse idea than yours. I should have called Bull.”

“Yes, because the Iron Bull seems like a font of good advice,” Dorian huffs in the tones of one mildly offended. “And do you even have his number?”

Kyra shrugs despite the fact that Dorian can’t see her. “I could have found it,” she protests. “I’m sure it’s on the university website somewhere.” She groans and tucks her hand behind her head, eyes tracing out asterisms in the bumps on her ceiling. “I don’t know. I was freaking out and all I could think was ‘I need to talk to Dorian.’ I hadn’t really planned any further than that.”

Dorian’s response, when it comes, is far gentler than his earlier teasing. “Do you want me to come over?”

 _Yes_ , Kyra wants to say, the answer immediate and instinctive. But they are adults, much as they may not act like it at times, and they cannot always get what they want. “At ten thirty at night?” she says instead. “Don’t you have work in the morning?”

She can practically hear Dorian’s shrug. “Alexius won’t care if I come in late: it would hardly be the first time.” There is a brief pause, then a cajoling “I’ll bring _Stargate_ and you can wallow in your adoration for Samantha Carter while you pretend to listen to me complain about the arrogant little cretins I teach who seem to be laboring under the delusion that they are better informed about the writings of Tacitus than I am.”

Kyra huffs into the phone, already rolling to her feet. She can admit when she has lost. “Damn you, Pavus. That’s cheating.”

...She never said she could admit it gracefully.

Dorian laughs and she hears his door slam shut as he heads out to his car. “It’s hardly my fault you are so very obvious in your weaknesses,” he taunts. Kyra swears at him, a string of biting invective, but when she hangs up the phone she is smiling.


	18. Chapter 18

Thoughts of the wedding simmer at the back of Kyra’s mind for the next week and a half. She has no idea what to expect from a human wedding and ends up spending more time than she cares to admit searching the internet for any information she can find.

Which as it turns out is not very much. So far as she can determine, there is no such thing as a “traditional” human wedding. Customs vary from nation to nation and culture to culture and half the time they are disregarded entirely at the whim of those getting married, which tells her exactly nothing about what to expect from the wedding of an Antivan diplomat to an Orlesian-Ferelden-whatever, terror-inducing, walking mystery. She does not even know what she is supposed to wear other than “not jeans and a hoodie,” which nixes just about the entirety of her wardrobe. This entire thing was _such_ a bad idea. Though it is one she still cannot bring herself to regret it.

By Sunday afternoon she has worked her way into a state of constant near-panic, despite the fact that the wedding is still weeks away. Part of her wants to call Cassandra and demand she tell her absolutely everything she knows about the wedding and the expectations and possibly beg for advice while another part refuses to admit to her utter incompetence and staggering ignorance. Besides, she justifies to herself, Cassandra has enough on her plate handling her situation at work without Kyra foisting her own inadequacies off on her.

A knock sounds at the door as Kyra attempts to distract herself with schoolwork - with the end of the semester approaching, she is all of a sudden drowning in assignments and exams and free time has become a precious commodity. She frowns blankly at the door for a long moment, not quite processing the fact that as a general rule knocking means someone is standing there waiting for her to open the door. In her defense, the only person who ever shows up unannounced on a regular basis is Dorian and he no longer bothers knocking. After a brief period of incomprehension she scrambles off of her couch and over to the door, careful not to trip over the detritus scattered across her living room floor. The moment the door swings open to reveal her visitor, Kyra is certain she can feel her heart stop.

Standing in the hallway of Kyra’s cheap, run-down apartment complex, looking somehow both entirely in control of her surroundings and at the same time entirely out of place, is Vivienne de Fer.

“Er,” Kyra manages, all brain activity stalled due to sheer shock. Vivienne arches a perfectly-shaped eyebrow and even without a word spoken Kyra can feel the weight of her judgment. She kind of wants the floor to swallow her whole. She rallies whatever is left of her wits and tries that whole “talking” thing again. Maybe this time it will actually work. “Can I help you with something, Madame de Fer?”

Score. Those were actual words and everything. She is rocking this. Vivienne regards her with a critical eye, frowning at Kyra’s wrinkled Skyhold University t-shirt and Batman pajama pants, and Kyra lifts her chin in response. She refuses to be ashamed of what she wears when she is alone in her home on her day off and if Vivienne has a problem with that then she should have warned Kyra of her arrival: maybe then she would have been dressed like a normal person when she answered the door instead of like a twelve year old on summer break.

The action earns her an approving smile from her visitor, a fleeting, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it curl of the corner of her mouth.

“I believe it is the other way around, my dear,” she says, voice cool but with no sign of distaste. “A mutual acquaintance sent me. Apparently she learned you had been invited to her wedding and requested my assistance in ensuring you had something suitable to wear.”

Kyra blinks in surprise as nearly two weeks’ worth of frustration resolves itself with a few disinterested words from Vivienne. “I - Josephine sent you?” she clarifies; it never hurts to be certain of these things. Vivienne laughs lightly, a sound of more form than substance.

“Leliana, actually.”

Kyra gapes at her, eyes wide, before she realizes what she is doing and shakes herself out of it. “Leliana,” she mutters under her breath, “of course. Because _that_ makes sense.” Louder, she says, “You’re welcome to come in, though I’m afraid it’s something of a disaster area. Had I know you were coming I would have cleaned the place up a bit.” And put on pants, though she does not feel the need to say that part out loud. She steps aside to allow Vivienne to sweep in, all long strides and flawless elegance, and Kyra is struck by the sheer impossibility of her presence here in Kyra’s student-budget housing.

Kyra considers offering Vivienne a seat but one look at the notebook- and clothing-strewn mess that is her couch has her scrapping that particular plan. Instead they stand (a little awkwardly, at least on Kyra’s part) just inside the front door, with Vivienne charitably _not_ making a show of studying her surroundings.

“Do I get to ask if you have an actual plan here?” Kyra asks after an interminably long few moments of quiet. “Because while I appreciate the thought” - sort of, in an odd way - “I really doubt anywhere you and Leliana shop is going to have anything even remotely within my price range.”

Vivienne laughs again, restrained but genuine. “Oh, don’t fret. It’s all been taken care of.”

The words make Kyra bristle, though she is not certain if she is more irritated by the charity or the presumption. She barely restrains her annoyed growl.

“While I appreciate the gesture, Madame de Fer,” she says through gritted teeth, “I assure you that I will manage just fine on my own. I do have twenty-odd years of experience in dressing myself.”

“Don’t be difficult, darling,” Vivienne says with a frown. “This is neither charity nor an attempt to buy your favor.”

Kyra snorts in unwilling amusement - the second option had never even occurred to her. And why would it? What possible reason would Leliana have to even _want_ her “favor”? The first one, however... She cannot say she is convinced.

“Then what is it?” she demands, not in the mood to dance around the point.

“According to Leliana, it is an apology. For what, I do not know and there is no point in asking me. I suspect you would have a better idea than I, regardless.”

An apology? Kyra blinks, caught off guard. For what, exactly? Surely not their encounter the month before. Right?

“I see,” she says, though she doesn’t, not really. She considers the situation, weighing her options before making any sort of decision. She could continue to refuse, could kick Vivienne out (politely, of course - there is no need to antagonize the woman unduly) and go about her day as normal. She would still need to find an outfit for the wedding, which with her limited budget would not be the easiest thing ever, but still well within her capabilities.

Or she could take Vivienne at her word and accept the olive branch being offered to her. She could set aside her pride for one day and push her boundaries to see what Leliana and Vivienne have planned.

She knows what her decision will be even before she finishes the thought. Above and beyond anything else, she is curious. And for all that she spends the bulk of her time in ill-fitting, thrift-store clothing, the idea of dressing up, of putting on a ridiculously expensive, thoroughly impractical dress has a certain allure of its own. She sighs, shoulders slumping.

“All right,” she agrees, earning a pleased smile from Vivienne. “But next time, you guys _have_ to run it by me beforehand. I don’t like it when people try to run my life for me.” While that is something of an understatement, it suffices to get the point across.

Vivienne gives a quiet hum that is in no way agreement, but considering how unlikely it is that this sort of situation will ever arise again Kyra does not feel the need to press the issue.

“In that case, you may wish to get dressed.”

At Vivienne’s words Kyra flushes, abruptly reminded of her current state of dishabille. She scrubs a hand through the disaster of her hair and sighs.

“Yeah, probably. Give me five minutes, would you?”

Without waiting for an answer she darts toward her bedroom as quickly as she can manage without making it look like she is fleeing (which she might be, a little, but Vivienne does not need to know that). It takes her very little time at all to change into the least tattered clothing she can find and wrangle her hair into something resembling submission, and she returns to Vivienne well under the allotted five minutes.

“Right,” she says, grabbing her keys from the coffee table and tucking them into her pocket. “What’s the plan? Because I have to admit, I have no experience whatsoever with this whole fashion thing.”

“We have an appointment with my personal tailor in half an hour,” Vivienne answers as she ushers Kyra out the door. “Leliana has sent a dress she believes will suit and - assuming you agree with her assessment - you will try it on and Madame Blanchard will see what alterations are needed before the wedding.”

Kyra considers this on the way down the five floors of her apartment building back to the street. She was not exaggerating when she told Vivienne that she had no experience with anything of this nature. Even the idea of a dress fitting is completely foreign to her and she has no idea what to expect. She will admit to some degree of trepidation at the idea of running headlong into a social situation for which she is entirely unprepared: six months ago there would have been no power on this earth that Vivienne could have called upon to convince Kyra to join her. She cannot put her finger on what exactly is responsible for her willingness to follow along now - whether it is the influence of Dorian or Cassandra or even just time smoothing away the jagged edges of her anxiety - but whatever it is, it leads to her sliding into the backseat of a sleek black town car beside one of the most powerful people in the city while Vivienne feeds directions to the driver.

Kyra spends much of the drive focusing on breathing, on keeping the rhythm of it slow and steady despite the way her current surroundings - stuck in a strange car with a strange woman on their way to who-knows-where - make her heart race and her skin itch. If Vivienne notices Kyra’s predicament she makes no mention of it, for which Kyra is grateful.

It is a relief when the car finally comes to a stop in front of a store Kyra does not recognize, a single-story, old brick building with massive windows displaying an assortment of formalwear, each piece of which Kyra suspects costs more money than she has seen in her entire life. There is no sign over the door, nothing beyond the window display to announce the purpose of the shop. Kyra considers asking Vivienne about it, but odds are that she will get an answer along the lines of “if you have to ask, you are in the wrong place” and she isn’t certain she is in any sort of condition to handle that degree of pretension at the moment.

Vivienne leads the way into the shop, Kyra at her heels. She does not know what she is expecting from the interior - something along the lines of the bridal salons she has seen on the countless wedding shows on television, with racks of dresses everywhere and a dozen different attendants flitting around the place, perhaps (look, she hates those shows as much as anyone else but they're _everywhere_  and it is impossible to avoid them entirely) - but whatever it was is not what she actually sees. It is surprisingly empty, with a raised round platform a few feet in diameter in front of an angled set of mirrors, two doors leading off to other parts of the shop, and a small sitting area with couches and a selection of magazines neatly arranged on a coffee table. There are only two people there, aside from Vivienne and Kyra herself, a young, harried-looking blonde elf of no more than twenty and a middle-aged human woman with grey streaks in her brown hair and sharp eyes. It is she who looks up when they enter, fixing Vivienne with a tight smile and ignoring Kyra entirely.

“Madame de Fer,” she greets in the obsequious tone of shopkeepers everywhere. “Right on time, as usual.”

“I would not think of wasting your valuable time, Madame Blanchard,” Vivienne replies. Her long, surprisingly-strong fingers wrap around Kyra’s shoulders and pull her forward. “I trust the Nightingale has explained the situation to you?”

Kyra fights not to let her confusion show on her face. Nightingale? What the hell...? She doubts she would get any sort of straight answer if she were to question Vivienne about it, however, and she resolves to ask Cassandra instead the next time they meet. She would like to know what she has gotten herself into.

Madame Blanchard harrumphs in what Kyra assumes is confirmation of Vivienne’s question. “Yes, yes, of course. This is the girl?” She peers at Kyra through her thick horn-rimmed glasses and sniffs.

“Yes. This is Kyra Lavellan, a friend of the Nightingale.” There is steel in Vivienne’s voice that had not been there a moment ago, a thread of warning and disapproval that has Blanchard’s eyes widening and apologies tumbling from her lips. Kyra takes what is perhaps an unseemly amount of pleasure in the reaction and finds herself wishing she possessed even a fraction of Vivienne’s social skills. She would love the ability to to get someone to back off with nothing more than a few well-chosen words.

“Of course, of course,” Blanchard says with a shallow bow directed more toward Vivienne than Kyra. “A pleasure.”

 _Liar_ , Kyra wants to say, but she keeps her mouth shut. On her shoulder, Vivienne’s hand squeezes once in approval.

“Is the dress ready?” Vivienne asks, directing the conversation where she wishes with an unsettling ease.

“As ready as it can be without a proper fitting.” Blanchard snaps her fingers in the direction of the blonde girl, who scuttles off through one of the interior doors and emerges moments later with her arms full of green fabric. She wordlessly hands it off to Blanchard before drawing back to a respectable distance and Blanchard holds it up for Vivienne’s inspection. As soon as she catches sight of it, Kyra’s eyes fly wide.

The dress is beautiful: Leliana, it seems, has excellent taste. Or at least has an excellent sense of _Kyra’s_ taste. The dress she has chosen is deep, forest green silk, floor-length and sleek, with a modest neckline and plunging back. Kyra tries to wrap her mind around the idea of wearing something that looks like it came out of the pages of some kind of fashion magazine and she just...can’t. Her brain refuses to process the image, leaving static in its place.

The corner of Vivienne’s generous mouth curls into a satisfied smile at Kyra’s stupefied expression. “Wonderful. Let’s get you started, then, shall we, my dear?”

Kyra comes back to herself with a shake of her head and the realization that she has no idea what she is supposed to do next. Blanchard takes care of that concern by pressing the dress into her hands and ushering her through the second of the shop’s doors. As the door closes behind her, Kyra looks around to find herself in a spacious changing room with full-length mirrors along the wall and a small shelf to hold her clothing.

Though she makes quick work of changing out of her day clothes and into the dress, she spends the entire time with her eyes locked on the door, avoiding the room’s many mirrors. She does not want to see her reflection, not yet, some part of her terrified that she will look ridiculous in the dress, its understated elegance ruined by her awkwardness. Just outside the door she can hear Vivienne and Blanchard murmuring to each other in Orlesian, a conversation that even if it weren’t muffled by the changing room door Kyra doubts she would be able to follow: her grasp of Orlesian is shaky, more suited to surviving casual, everyday encounters than a tailor’s shoptalk.

She smooths her hands down the sides of the dress, silk sliding beneath her palms, and forces herself to step out into the shop’s main room, paranoid that she is going to trip over the hems and tear a hole in the fabric. Vivienne glances up when she hears Kyra emerge, cutting off her conversation in favor of studying the way the dress sits on Kyra’s slender frame.

“That will do nicely, I think,” she murmurs, more to herself than her companions. “Madame Blanchard?”

The seamstress shoos Kyra over toward the raised platform, pushing and prodding until she is standing where and how Blanchard wants her. Positioned as she is facing the three angled mirrors, there is no way Kyra can avoid her reflection any longer.

She bites back a gasp at the sight that greets her in the mirror. Despite her fears, she looks...okay, a little stiff and uncomfortable, but still.

“It suits you, my dear,” Vivienne says and Kyra finds herself agreeing. The twisting lines of her vallaslin snake under the straps over her shoulders and disappear beneath the edges of a fitted bodice that flows down into a narrow skirt. The skirt is several inches too long, pooling around her feet like she is a child playing dress up, and the fabric hangs strangely at her hips where it was clearly meant for someone with curves far more generous than Kyra’s, but those imperfections do little to stifle the awe she feels as she stares at her reflection in the giant mirrors. She feels like some sort of Disney princess, all dolled up for the ball.

Blanchard tutts, shattering the illusion. “It’s frumpy, is what it is,” she mutters as she pulls a set of straight pins from a pocket. “You can’t be seen in public like this, you’ll be a laughingstock. Hold still, girl.”

With that she sets to pinning up Kyra’s dress, pulling her around and about and occasionally jabbing her with a pin when she starts to fidget. Every once in a while Vivienne will chime in with suggestions and Blanchard keeps muttering to herself, too low for Kyra to understand, but other than that the entire process is conducted in near-silence. Kyra sighs and allows herself to be maneuvered around, mentally preparing herself for what is certain to be a very long afternoon.

 

* * *

 

Vivienne brings Kyra back home at the end of the evening and the door has barely closed behind her before Kyra is pressing the speed dial on her cell phone. It takes three rings for Cassandra to pick up.

“What the fuck is wrong with your friends?” Kyra demands by way of greeting.

Cassandra makes a quiet, confused noise and when she responds Kyra can hear the frown in her voice.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your friends,” Kyra repeats, “are mad.”

There is a long-suffering sigh on the other end of the line. “What did Leliana do?” Cassandra asks. Kyra gets the feeling that this is not the first time she has had to ask that particular question and she bites her lip on a laugh. The stress of the last few hours fades with the familiar cadences of Cassandra’s voice and Kyra flops bonelessly onto her couch, phone pressed to her ear.

“She bought me a dress.”

Cassandra is silent for a long moment as she processes this.

“Clarify.”

Kyra grins and launches into a brief rundown of the last few hours, more amused by the way Cassandra’s irritation grows with each word out of her mouth than she should be. Halfway through her story she stops mid-sentence as she recalls the question she had intended to ask.

“Who or what is ‘Nightingale’?”

Another long pause. “Where did you hear that?” Cassandra finally asks. She sounds neither defensive nor concerned, just curious.

“Madame de Fer mentioned it a few times. I’m pretty sure she was using it as a threat.”

Cassandra lets out a breath of a laugh. “That sounds about right. Nightingale is Leliana. Or was.”

“Leliana has a secret code name,” Kyra says, just to make sure they were on the same page here. “Cassandra, please tell me your friend isn’t some kind of super-spy. I really need to hear that right now.”

“My friend is not some kind of super-spy,” Cassandra repeats obediently. She then ruins it with, “Not anymore. She’s retired.”

Kyra splutters into the phone and Cassandra laughs properly this time, bright and real and so lovely Kyra’s heart aches.

“I hate you,” she snaps as soon as she has recovered enough to speak. “I don’t know if you were serious or not and I’m kind of terrified that Leliana is secretly, like, the Black Widow or something and I hate you.” It is a blatant lie and they both know it but it is safer than any alternative Kyra can think of.

“It is...complicated,” Cassandra admits and it takes a minute for Kyra to realize that she is still talking about Leliana. She snorts.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” She sighs but she can’t quite keep the amusement from her voice. “Your entire life is fucking ridiculous. I want you to know that.”

Cassandra hums in quiet agreement and from there the conversation drifts to other topics, neither of them quite willing to hang up just yet. Which probably means something, points out an insistent little voice in the back of Kyra’s mind, but she ignores it with only minor difficulty. She is content with what she has, lounging on her couch with her legs thrown over the back and arms flailing in the air to illustrate the story she is trying to tell. She does not need to go searching for things that are not there.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first of all, I apologize for disappearing there for a few weeks. RL got a bit hectic. For similar reasons, I'm going to warn you now that updates are probably going to be a bit sporadic for the next few weeks while I get used to my new schedule. But don't worry, I have every intention of finishing this (if it all goes according to my outline - which let's be honest, it never does - it's going to end up at about 27 chapters in total).

The newly-altered dress arrives two weeks later, delivered to her door in a black garment bag by an acne-ridden boy of about sixteen who keeps looking from Kyra to the bag and back again with a confused wrinkle between thick brown eyebrows. Kyra heaves the long-suffering sigh of the unfairly judged as she relieves him of the delivery and sends him on his way. The garment bag she carries back to her bedroom where she lays it on the bed and carefully unzips it to reveal the dress within.

It looks much the same as it had that day in the shop, with no outward sign of the alterations Madame Blanchard had made. The skirt is several inches shorter than it had been but when Kyra examines the hem she cannot see any flaw in the stitching, any oddities in the drape of the fabric. Not that she would expect otherwise from Vivienne de Fer’s personal tailor, but the verification is satisfying.

A smaller bag hangs from the hook of the hangar and when Kyra tugs it open she finds a pair of elbow-length gloves made of thin black silk, cool and smooth beneath her curious fingers. She shakes her head at the discovery: of course Leliana had noticed that she never goes out with both hands bare and arranged for something to match the dress. At the bottom of the garment bag is a pair of black heels, tall enough to give her height a noticeable boost but not so tall that she will break her neck trying to walk around in them. Leliana is leaving nothing to chance, and Kyra cannot quite decide how she feels about that fact. On the one hand it means there is less for her to worry about. On the other hand, she is not incompetent and resents being treated like she is.

She shrugs it off for the moment and tucks the dress and shoes into her closet, safely away from any potential accidents that might occur between now and the wedding. As she is closing the closet door behind her she hears the front door swing open with a squeal of hinges (she really needs to fix that one of these days) and Dorian’s cheerful shout of greeting as he swans into her apartment like he owns it.

“How many credit card offers do you get in a day?” Dorian demands, his voice carrying from the living room down the hall into Kyra’s bedroom. Kyra groans.

“Are you going through my mail again?” she calls back as she makes her way out to the living room and her nosy pain in the ass of a best friend. “You know that’s illegal, right?”

Dorian flaps a hand at her from where he stands next to the pile of mail on her coffee table. “If I don’t, no one will,” he says with a pointed look at the mountain of unopened envelopes. Kyra flushes: it’s not like she has been intentionally ignoring the slowly growing stack, she has just had more important things occupying her time over the last few weeks. Like anything that isn’t sorting through junk mail. Besides, it’s not as though she ever gets anything more exciting than bills and credit card spam.

“Shut up,” she mutters then leaves him to it while she wanders into the kitchen in search of something to munch on. Whatever it is Dorian came here for, he will get to it in his own time. “Let me know if you find anything interesting.”

“Hmm. Credit card offers. Bank statements - haven’t you switched to paperless yet? how wasteful - coupons that expired sometime last year. Ooh, what’s this?”

Kyra glances over the open door of the refrigerator to see him holding up plain white envelope with her name and address hand-written on the front and no sign of a return address. She shrugs.

“Dunno.”

“May I?” Dorian asks, eyeing the envelope with far more curiosity than Kyra feels the situation really warrants.

“Knock yourself out.” She turns back to glower at the refrigerator as though she can force it to reveal something other than a nearly-empty milk carton and wilted head of lettuce. Much to her dismay, the refrigerator remains stubbornly barren. She huffs as she lets the door swing shut and heads back over to Dorian.

“I’m hungry,” she announces. Dorian rolls his eyes as he unfolds the letter. “We should go grab food as soon as you’re finished poking through my private affairs.”

Dorian does not respond to her comment, instead staring down at the letter in his hands with wide eyes. After only a few moments, not nearly long enough to read much farther than the salutation, he thrusts the letter toward her, movements uncharacteristically graceless.

“You’re going to want to read this before I do.”

Though the waver in Dorian’s voice unsettles her more than she cares to admit, Kyra’s hand is steady when she reaches to take the letter. She glances down at it and immediately recognizes the handwriting, the elegant script as familiar to her as her own careless scrawl. The date at the top of the page is from more than two months before and Kyra has to suppress a wince at not having seen this before now.

 _Da’len_ , the letter reads,

_I will admit that I do not know how to begin this letter. You made your choice to leave us and seek your own way in this world and I have done my best to respect that decision. But it has been months now since I have had any news of you and with the anniversary of your loss - all of ours, in truth, as there is not a one among us who does not miss him terribly - I find myself unable to maintain this silence any longer. I am not asking you to come back: though I hope you know you are always welcome here, I understand that you had your reasons for leaving. But please, at least let me know you are all right. The coming days cannot be easy for you and I just want to be sure you are safe and you are not alone. Not now. Set an old woman’s heart at ease, da’len._

_Whatever you decide, know that I love you and that while we all miss you dearly I pray that you are happy with the life you have made for yourself._

_Yours,_

_Deshanna_

Kyra doesn’t know what expression she wears while reading the letter - so many conflicting emotions tear through her that she has no idea how it translates - but whatever it is has Dorian watching her with wary eyes as though waiting for her to break down or explode or Creators only know what. He is clearly expecting a reaction of some sort, though even he doesn’t seem to know what kind.

“Are you all right?” he prods, voice gentle in a way it only gets when he is truly worried. Kyra blinks at the letter a few times before handing it over without a word so that he can read it.

As Dorian’s eyes scan the page, Kyra tries to catalog her reaction to the letter, to Deshanna reaching out now after so many months of radio silence. It is the first she has heard of her clan since she walked away, leaving behind nothing but a forwarding address, and Kyra can read between the lines of the letter well enough to know that Deshanna wants her to come home, that any attempt at communication will include a subtle play to convince her to return to her clan. The thought of going back...it hurts, a sharp, stinging ache in her heart that she has no idea what to do with. She doesn’t want to, she realizes. It is an unnerving thought. Somewhere in the back of her mind she has always assumed, at least subconsciously, that someday she would return to her people, her clan, and pick up the pieces of the life she left behind. But when she actually thinks about it, thinks about packing up and saying goodbye to Dorian and Cassandra and Sera and all the others, thinks about never returning to the Fade or the Herald’s Rest...

Deshanna can stop praying. Kyra _is_ happy, happier than she had thought it possible for her to be with Rion gone.

She hears Dorian whistle loudly as he finishes the letter, setting it on the coffee table and looking at her with a thoughtful frown.

“What are you going to do about it?” he asks and Kyra winces. That is the question, isn’t it? She knows, rationally, that she should respond to the letter somehow, let Deshanna know not to worry. But she has been avoiding her clan for a reason, avoiding anyone who remembers what she was like before losing her brother. She knows it changed her, knows the person she is now is wildly different from the person she used to be, and she isn’t sure she can handle dealing with the disappointment of those who expect the latter only to get the former. She _definitely_ isn’t ready to deal with those who would try to force her back into the shape they remember and she is not naive enough to think that they won’t try to do just that. She has worked hard to build herself out of the pieces Rion left behind, to craft herself into someone real, someone worth being.

Kyra sets her jaw, lifts her chin, and decides that she isn’t going to worry about it. Not right now. She meets Dorian’s eyes.

“What I am going to do is get food and possibly an inadvisable amount of alcohol and pretend this didn’t happen,” she announces. “Sound like a plan?”

Dorian shakes his head but he is laughing as he links his arm through Kyra’s and leads her toward the door. “That sounds like an _excellent_ plan.”

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately for Kyra, putting it out of her mind is not as simple as she had hoped. The letter and the dilemma it presents weigh on her mind for the rest of the week and she is unspeakably grateful when Saturday night rolls around and with it the promised distraction of her weekly coffee not-date with Cassandra.

She is so used to having the Fade almost entirely to themselves that she is taken by surprise when she and Cassandra walk through the door to see the front counter already occupied and Cole embroiled in a conversation instead of greeting them with his usual good cheer. It is not until she feels Cassandra tense at her side that she even realizes she knows these particular interlopers: Varric is easy enough to identify once Kyra thinks to try but it takes her a little longer to place the elf at his side as Doctor Solas, the Skyhold history professor at whose presentation she had met Dorian all those months ago.

“We could go somewhere else,” Cassandra says under her breath, shooting Varric a glare that brings new meaning to the phrase “if looks could kill.” Kyra just chuckles quietly and wraps her hand around Cassandra’s wrist to pull her forward. She is under no illusions that she could drag her friend anywhere she did not want to go - all Cassandra would have to do is plant her feet and Kyra might as well be trying to move a brick wall - so when Cassandra actually deigns to follow it sends a frisson of delight through her. The fact that she can feel the steady thrum of Cassandra’s pulse beneath her fingers is just a bonus. A very  _nice_ bonus.

As they near the counter Kyra can hear more of the conversation she is about to interrupt in search of her caffeine fix.

“Look, Kid,” Varric says to Cole, “you have to follow your heart. No one can make this call for you.”

Cole blinks his too-large eyes at him, looking more lost than Kyra has ever seen him. “But I don’t know what I want. How do I tell?” He looks up then and when he sees Kyra and Cassandra his eyes get even wider, which Kyra had not thought possible.

“Tell me you two aren’t giving Cole trouble,” Kyra says and while her tone is light there is an edge of warning there, too. She _likes_ Cole and if Varric and Solas are causing problems for him there is no way she is going to leave him to deal with it on his own. Not that she has any idea how to help, if that is the case, but that’s not the point. Out of the corner of her eye she catches the approving smile curling at the corner of Cassandra’s mouth.

“They’re helping,” Cole assures her with an artless grin. “I’ll get your drinks.”

As Cole disappears behind the espresso machine, Varric regards the interlopers with an arched eyebrow. “Seeker, Snapdragon. Isn’t this a surprise?”

Cassandra scoffs but otherwise seems content to pretend Varric isn’t there, walking up to the counter on the other side of Solas and leaning a hip against it as she watches Cole prepare whatever concoctions he has decided they need tonight. Kyra shakes her head but decides it’s better than trying to deal with Cassandra and Varric snarling at each other until Cole can get the drinks ready.

“I take it you all know each other?” Solas asks in his gentle voice and Kyra shrugs.

“Sort of. I’m Kyra Lavellan.” She holds a hand out to Solas and watches as he takes it, grey eyes flicking across her vallaslin with the briefest expression of distaste even as he introduces himself. Kyra rolls her eyes - she has read some of Solas’s papers (mostly the ones that make Dorian go all red and growly and annoyed because that’s just too entertaining to pass up) and he is far from subtle in his disdain for the Dalish. She presses her lips together, returns his unimpressed frown with one of her own, and promptly goes about ignoring him in favor of Varric. If Cassandra is allowed to be rude, then so is she.

“So if you’re not making trouble, what are you pestering him for?” She is just curious now, not suspicious - if Cole says they’re helping him then she will take him at his word.

To her surprise, it is Cole who answers, his voice drifting over the top of the espresso machine and barely audible over the sound of the steamer. “I’m choosing classes. They’re helping.”

Judging by the way Varric and Solas are glaring at one another when they think no one is looking, Kyra cannot imagine that they are all that helpful, but she does not say as much. She does not need to get involved here: Cole has enough on his plate just dealing with those two.

“You are attending classes this fall?”

Kyra has to hide her smile at Cassandra’s question: for all her suspicion of Cole on their first meeting, in the weeks following he has grown on her, or so it has seemed to Kyra. The grin he shoots Cassandra is infectious.

“Yes,” is all he says in response, setting their drinks on the counter. It is Cassandra’s turn to pay so Kyra leaves her to it while she gathers up their drinks. When she is certain neither Varric nor Solas are looking her way, she mouths a quick “listen to Varric” at Cole (she has no idea who is arguing for what, but Solas’s attitude annoys her and she never claimed to be above petty revenge tactics and besides, she trusts Varric to be sensible more than she does Solas) before carrying their prize over to their table. Cassandra catches up to her just as Varric and Solas start up again, their bickering over the importance of gen eds making them sound too much like divorced parents embroiled in a custody battle for Kyra to keep a straight face. By the time she settles into her seat she is muffling her snickers behind her hand. Cassandra shakes her head in mock despair but she is no more able to suppress her smile than Kyra is her laughter.

“And here I thought you and Varric were ridiculous,” Kyra mutters, careful to keep her voice low enough not to carry over to the subjects of their discussion. Cassandra glares at her but her lips are twitching around the rim of her cup.

“My interactions with Varric are perfectly reasonable,” she protests and Kyra gives a too-solemn nod, eyes wide.

“Of course; my mistake.”

They share a smile, soft and secret, before Cassandra sobers, studying Kyra with her head tilted to one side. The quiet regard makes Kyra more uncomfortable than she would care to admit.

“What is it?” she asks as she fights the urge to fidget. The corner of Cassandra’s mouth tugs down into a frown, more concern than disapproval.

“Are you - is everything all right?” Her voice is hesitant, as though she is not certain she is allowed to ask. “You seem distracted this evening.”

Kyra snorts. “That’s a word for it, I suppose,” she says, drawing a curious look from Cassandra. “It’s -” She stops halfway through saying “it’s nothing”: it is certainly not nothing and she does not want to lie to Cassandra, even about something like this. Instead she says, “It’s not anything I have any desire to think about right now.”

Cassandra hums her understanding and Kyra can feel the tension leech from her shoulders when it becomes apparent that she is not going to press the matter. Cassandra opens her mouth to say something else only to be interrupted by the sudden appearance of Varric sliding into an empty seat at their table. Whatever she was about to say is lost in favor of glaring at Varric. He just grins at her, cocksure and fearless.

“So, how’s it going?”

Before Kyra has a chance to respond, to head off this entire encounter before it can spiral into something messy and violent, Cassandra growls, a low, irritated noise that Kyra finds distressingly sexy. But then, this is Cassandra. Kyra finds pretty much everything about her distressingly sexy. It's something of a problem.

“What do you want, Varric?” she demands, her gentleness from before nowhere to be found. Varric does not look nearly as intimidated as Kyra thinks he should.

“Aww, what’s the matter, Seeker?” he asks and for all that his words are teasing there is a bite to them. “Am I interrupting your date?”

Cassandra growls again and suddenly the sound is far less attractive than it was moments before. Kyra almost dreads the words that are about to come out of her mouth:  of all the things she did not need today, this is pretty high up on the list. She takes a sip of her drink in an attempt to distract herself from her impending incidental heartbreak.

“If I say yes will you leave us alone?”

Kyra chokes on her coffee, hand flying up to cover her mouth before she can spew it all over the table. That was not the reaction she had been expecting. At all. At her side, Varric cackles.

“Right,” he says in the moments between laughs, “that’ll be the day.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes and Kyra has to hide her wince behind her napkin. Yes, thanks, Varric. She already knows how pointless her crush is; she could have lived without having it thrown in her face.

In Varric’s defense, with his attention so focused on Cassandra it is likely that he hasn’t even noticed the effect his words have on Kyra. He is just trying to give Cassandra shit, anyone else’s reaction secondary to antagonizing her. It does not take him long to realize that he is receiving death glares from both sides, however, and he flashes Kyra a charming grin that does little to soothe her ruffled feathers the way she suspects it was intended to do.

“I just came over here to thank Snapdragon for her support,” he says with a shrug that is just this side of too casual. Cassandra shoots Kyra a look of betrayal, all furrowed brows and pursed lips, and Kyra has to fight the urge to lean over the table and kiss the expression away, soothe the sharp edges of Cassandra’s scowl with lips and tongue.

It is harder to push the thought away than usual, though Kyra refuses to think too hard about why that is.

“It had nothing to do with you,” she tells Varric instead of dwelling on ridiculous fantasies. “I just don’t like Solas very much and am in no way above making his life difficult just for kicks.”

Varric snorts at that and Cassandra frowns at her. “I hadn’t realized you two were acquainted,” she says. It is Kyra’s turn to shrug.

“We’re not. He and Dorian have some weird professional antagonism thing going on that somehow best friend privileges mean I keep getting dragged into. I think this is the first time we’ve ever actually spoken to each other.”

“Do I want to ask for details?” Cassandra asks with a wry twist of her lips that Kyra is helpless but to return.

“Probably not. You’ll just get a nearly-incomprehensible rant about a bunch of elf stuff and it’ll all end in tears. Or a fistfight.” She pauses to consider it. “Or both. And there is no way that will end well for me.”

Cassandra laughs, eyes bright as she watches Kyra, and Varric glances between the two with a look of dawning horror.

“Andraste’s ass,” he mutters, just loud enough for Kyra to hear him over the background noise of the cafe, “I thought she was joking.” He pushes himself out of his seat and gives them an awkward wave. “Well, I know when I’m not wanted,” he says, louder this time, and Kyra suspects that he had not meant for her to hear the first part.

Cassandra snorts. “Not in my experience,” she says, but Varric ignores her. With a surprisingly genuine “enjoy your night,” he leaves them in peace in favor of heading back to the front counter and Cole. Kyra and Cassandra’s conversation picks back up as though they had never been interrupted, but more than once throughout the rest of the evening Kyra feels the weight of Varric’s gaze, thoughtful and calculating, on her back.


	20. Chapter 20

Kyra glares at her reflection in the mirror as she fusses with an errant curl of hair, fighting to get it to stay where she wants it. She cannot remember the last time she tried to get her hair into anything more complicated than a braid but there is no possible way it took this much effort then. Or maybe it did and that’s why she hasn’t bothered since.

Between hair that refuses to behave and make-up that takes her three tries to get right, Kyra is already one hundred percent done with this wedding and she hasn’t even left her apartment yet. She grumbles to herself as she checks the mirror one last time: her hair pulled into an elegant knot, lone curls falling forward to frame her face, and the dress that has caused her so much grief clinging to her frame like it was designed with her in mind. The only part of her reflection that she even recognizes as her own is the vallaslin tracing the contours of her face, untouched by her attempts at make-up. Everything else... she doesn’t quite know who it is staring back at her.

A knock at her front door forces her out of her musing and she curses at the clock on her bedside table: she hadn’t realized just how late it had gotten and now Cassandra is here and she still isn’t ready.

“It’s open!” she shouts as she attempts to pull on her gloves and her shoes at the same time, nearly braining herself against the edge of her dresser when she inevitably loses her balance. Another string of curses and a more careful attempt at coordination and she is finally able to leave her room, steps slow as she adjusts to the feeling of walking in heels. She makes it out to the living room without any more mishaps, all set to grumble to Cassandra about the apparent safety hazards of fancy dress, when she just -

stops.

What was intended to be a snarky quip emerges as something more akin to a whimper. The noise catches Cassandra’s attention and there is a long moment of silence as they stare at one another.

Somehow it had never once occurred to Kyra that going to a wedding with Cassandra would involve the both of them dressing up. Maybe because the idea of Cassandra in a dress is so incomprehensible to her that her brain just skipped right over the entire concept. But Cassandra isn’t wearing a dress. It might have been easier if she were: at least then she would look awkward and uncomfortable and her misery would distract Kyra enough from her outfit that she might actually survive the evening. But no. Oh, no. Cassandra is wearing a _suit_.

Kyra is pretty sure that her entire brain has melted into a puddle of mush. She has seen Cassandra in business-wear before, true, dress shirts and suit jackets rumpled after a day at work, sleeves pulled up to her elbows, but this is different. This isn’t Cassandra trying to look professional; this is Cassandra trying to look _good_. And succeeding.

The black jacket is perfectly tailored to emphasize the strength of Cassandra’s shoulders, the trimness of her waist, and the pants cling to her hips and legs in a way that Kyra cannot think about if she wants to regain higher brain function at any point this century. Had she been in any state to notice such things, she would have seen signs of Leliana’s influence in the rich green of Cassandra’s slender tie and the square of cloth in her breast pocket, so perfect a match to Kyra’s dress that it might as well have come from the same cut of fabric.

Had she been in any state to notice such things, she might also have seen the way Cassandra’s gaze lingers on the soft curve of Kyra’s hips, the sharp line of her collarbone, the painted red of her mouth as she studies Kyra in turn, her eyes wide and dark despite the brightness of the room. But all Kyra can focus on is the way her pulse throbs in her ears and her fingers itch to reach out to touch, to take, to have. Oh, Creators, the things she wants to do to this woman.

“You look wonderful,” Cassandra says and Kyra rallies her scattered thoughts enough to at least attempt a response.

“Yeah,” she croaks. Then she registers what she just said and she can feel her face flame. “I mean - fuck - thanks. So do you.”

Cassandra snorts and much of the tension in the air dissipates. If nothing else, Kyra can breathe again without fearing her chest will burst.

“Are you ready to go?”

Kyra laughs, thin and a little panicky. “Not even a little,” she replies but steps toward Cassandra regardless. Cassandra frowns at her, a concerned little furrow of her brow.

“You do not have to do this,” she says and she sounds so earnest that Kyra kind of wants to scream. “If you’re uncomfortable...”

Kyra cuts her off with a roll of her eyes and tucks her hand into the curve of Cassandra’s elbow like a lady being escorted to a ball. If her heartbeat picks up again at the warmth of Cassandra’s skin even through the many layers of clothing between them, Cassandra shows no sign of noticing. “Relax, Cassandra,” she murmurs, tilting her chin up so that she can meet Cassandra’s eyes. “I’m fine.”

Her friend makes a quiet, doubtful noise but does not argue, just guides Kyra out of the apartment and down to her waiting car, walking close enough that the hem of Kyra’s dress brushes against the edge of Cassandra’s pants every few steps.

The drive to the Chantry gives Kyra a chance to finish collecting herself, at least to the point where catching a glimpse of Cassandra out of the corner of her eye does not send her into stammering incoherency, which she counts as a victory. They fill the journey with quiet conversation and companionable silences until Cassandra pulls into the Chantry’s parking lot (though she had been surprised when Cassandra had told her where the ceremony was to be held she supposes that she does not really know either Leliana or Josephine well enough to think she can predict anything about them) and Kyra is beset by an entirely new set of nerves.

She eyes the Chantry warily: it is a towering structure, all unforgiving stone and imposing archways. Kyra has never been inside a Chantry before - has never had any reason or desire to - and the thought of Deshanna’s reaction to her presence here today has her biting her lip to conceal her smile.

Apparently she does not conceal it well enough. “What is so amusing?” Cassandra demands as they climb the steps to the massive wooden front doors. Kyra just shrugs.

“Wondering if I’m going to get struck by lightning or something for having the gall to set my heathen foot inside a Chantry.”

Cassandra huffs out a quiet laugh. “Considering Leliana and Josephine’s guest list, I doubt you have anything to worry about. As unbelievable as you might find the idea, you will be far from the most unusual Chantry attendee tonight.”

And oh, but doesn’t _that_ sound interesting? Much to Kyra’s dismay, however, Cassandra refuses to elaborate on her comment despite both Kyra’s pestering and her best attempt at the pleading puppy dog eyes that had been so useful when she was a child. Unlike her Keeper, Cassandra seems unfairly immune.

Kyra grumbles good-naturedly as they find seats on a bench - pew? are they called pews? Kyra can’t recall, had never cared enough to learn - near enough to the front that they will have a clear view of the ceremony and settle close enough together that Cassandra’s thigh presses against Kyra’s, a searing heat through two layers of cloth. The only one at the altar is the Revered Mother, a tall black woman with a kind face dressed in the traditional red and white robes of her office. There is no sign yet of either of the brides nor any of the wedding party, and Kyra spends the time until the ceremony is due to start studying the other guests filling the seats around her. She is surprised once more by the variety of people who have gathered and is reminded of Cassandra’s comment at the front door: there are elves, both Dalish and non, Chantry sisters, humans of all ethnicities, and a small contingent near the front that despite its motley appearance Kyra would swear is military of some sort. The conversations going on around her are in at least three different languages and those are just the ones she can hear. Not for the first time, Kyra finds herself wondering just what Leliana actually does that leads to such a varied array of friends.

Before she can try to convince Cassandra to tell her - it has never worked before but Kyra isn’t ready to give up just yet - the music shifts from quiet background noise into a crescendo that silences all conversation in the Chantry. Kyra does not need to have any familiarity with Andrastian weddings to recognize the signal to begin.

There is a commotion near the front door, a shuffle of movement and hissed words barely audible over the music, that draws the attention of everyone in the room. Kyra shifts around until she can peer over her shoulder at the entourage that has just entered the Chantry. (Cassandra turns, too, and it takes a concentrated effort for Kyra to pay attention to the wedding procession instead of the way Cassandra’s hand rests on the bare skin at the curve of Kyra’s shoulder, a light, barely-there touch that Kyra _knows_ is just meant to help Cassandra maintain her balance despite the awkward angle of her spine but she cannot help the heat that races through her from the point of contact, no matter how much she mentally curses herself for it.)

The first pair down the aisle are children, a dark-skinned human boy whose relation to Josephine is obvious in the sharp line of his nose and the soft curve of his mouth, carrying a pillow upon which rests a pair of golden rings, and an elven girl with a tumble of strawberry-blonde curls who leaves a trail of brightly colored flower petals in her wake. The two are followed by two women in matching blue bridesmaid’s dresses - a human woman who, like the young ring-bearer, is unmistakably related to Josephine somehow (Kyra would guess her sister, based on her apparent age and the close resemblance between the two) and an elven woman with flame-red hair several shades darker than Leliana’s and a lurid scar stretching from her right temple down to the corner of her mouth that her make-up does not even attempt to disguise. Even here in the middle of a wedding there is something of the soldier in the way she carries herself, shoulders back and eyes roving restlessly over the crowd. She seems almost familiar, though Kyra cannot for the life of her think of where she might have seen her before. Noticing the direction of Kyra’s attention, Cassandra leans forward to whisper into Kyra’s ear, quiet enough not to disturb those sitting next to them. Between the warmth of Cassandra’s breath on her neck and the low murmur of her voice so close to her ear, Kyra almost misses her actual words, too distracted trying to suppress the whine that crawls up into her throat at the sensations. The accompanying shiver is beyond her ability to conceal and she prays that Cassandra will attribute it to a sudden chill or something equally non-threatening.

“Commander Lex Tabris. She and Leliana have been friends for years.”

It takes Kyra a minute to place the name - in her defense, Cassandra is doing a fantastic job of unintentionally driving her to distraction - but once she does the rush of shock burns away the edges of arousal.

“Holy fuck. The Hero of Ferelden. Leliana’s bridesmaid is the fucking Hero of fucking Ferelden.”

“Maid of Honor,” Cassandra corrects. “Matron of Honor, I suppose, as she is married.”

Kyra’s head spins as she tries to process this new information, to reconcile it with the world she knows. She does not know the details behind the disaster that earned a previously-unknown elf from the slums of Denerim such a lofty title: as far as she is aware, no one really does, everything too highly classified and the truth buried under an impenetrable layer of political BS. She just knows that the world was gearing up for a war, every nation for itself until all of a sudden it wasn’t anymore and a newbie special ops agent from Ferelden was being hailed as some kind of hero. A hero who is now playing a major role in the wedding of Kyra’s sort-of-friends.

Creators, but her life has gotten weird.

She is not given long to contemplate this realization before another swell of music heralds the appearance of the brides and drags Kyra’s attention back to where it belongs, her breath catching in her throat at the sight that greets her at the Chantry doors.

Leliana and Josephine are stunning in a way that goes beyond make-up and dresses (though Kyra finds herself admiring those, as well, Leliana’s understated yet elegant and Josephine’s festooned in ruffles and lace, polar opposites and somehow perfect complements). The usually-restrained Josephine is beaming like a fool, smile wide and infectious, staring at Leliana with eyes so full of love and adoration that it makes Kyra’s chest ache. Her left arm is entwined with Leliana’s right and for the first time Kyra has seen, there is real, genuine pleasure on Leliana’s face, a joy so bright it seems to spill out of her. The gathered audience seems to hold its collective breath as the pair of them make their slow way up the aisle, oblivious to the way that every eye in the room has fixed on them, too lost in one another.

The music fades away as the brides reach the altar and the wedding begins in earnest. If asked after the fact Kyra would be hard-pressed to remember specifics of the ceremony itself, the format too foreign and her attention too focused on the smaller details: the way the jewels in Josephine’s hair sparkle in the light of the chandeliers, the way Leliana’s silver tongue trips over the emotion invested in her vows (the way Cassandra’s shoulder is warm against the hers where they lean together almost accidentally, absorbed in the scene in front of them).

She remembers being a little overwhelmed by the crowd and the beauty and the emotion. She remembers the way Leliana’s cheeks shine with tears as she slides the ring onto Josephine’s finger. She remembers the way Josephine kisses her new wife, soft and sweet and full of promise, to the sound of their friends and family cheering.

The ceremony draws to a close and Leliana and Josephine lead the way back out of the Chantry, arm in arm and grinning fit to burst. Their exit is followed by near chaos as the gathered crowd stampedes out to their cars to trail after the wedding party in the direction of the wedding venue.

Cassandra and Kyra remain where they are for several minutes, waiting for the worst of the crowd to disperse: they are in no rush and the less time they have to spend fighting through a throng of people, the happier Kyra will be.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” Kyra mutters when they finally reach the safety of Cassandra’s car, slanting a grin at her companion as Cassandra pulls out of the parking lot. Cassandra shakes her head, lips pressed together in the way that Kyra knows means she is amused but trying not to show it.

“I suspect that was the easy part,” she says and Kyra is forced to concede the point. Sitting quietly through a lovely ceremony is hardly a trial. The reception, on the other hand, involves _socializing_. Kyra wrinkles her nose in distaste.

“At least there will be dancing?” she offers after a moment’s thought. At Cassandra’s raised eyebrow, Kyra shrugs. “What? I like dancing. Excuse me for trying to see the positive here.”

“Hmm.” Cassandra does not appear convinced and Kyra rolls her eyes, more amused than anything.

“Let me guess,” she teases. “You hate dancing: it’s horrible and you don’t see the purpose.”

Cassandra huffs. “I do not _hate_ it,” she protests, though it is halfhearted at best. “I simply do not share your...enthusiasm for the activity.”

Kyra laughs, settling back against her seat and closing her eyes. “Clearly you have not been dancing with the right partners.” She cracks an eye open to see Cassandra glaring at her and grins. “Relax, Cassandra. I promise not to force you to dance with me tonight in order to prove how very wrong you are.”

She very carefully does not entertain the idea of dancing with Cassandra at the reception. She wasn’t lying before: she does genuinely enjoy the activity but she is not deluded enough to think that such a thing is in any way a good idea. She does not have nearly enough faith in her ability to keep her hands to herself to even make the attempt.

Cassandra interrupts her thought process with a quiet snort of laughter. “I would like to see you try.”

Kyra considers the challenge for a moment, almost tempted just to see how Cassandra would react, but common sense - and self-preservation - win out over morbid curiosity. She lets the conversation lapse and they spend the last few minutes of the drive in a comfortable silence.

Josephine and Leliana have chosen to hold their reception in the ballroom of one of Skyhold’s few luxury hotels and upon entering it is all Kyra can do to keep from gawking at the decorations that have been set up for the event, a wash of white and blue that turn the normally-plain room into something out of a fairy tale. For all that the wedding planner had rubbed her the wrong way, Kyra has to admit that the woman is damn good at her job.

Dozens of round tables take up the near half of the hall, white tablecloths with elegant flower arrangements rising from the center and pale blue name cards at each place setting. Kyra has no idea where to even begin searching for their names but a glance over at Cassandra tells her that she needn’t worry. Her friend seems to know where she is going, not even bothering to stop to read the cards on the tables they pass. Their destination is apparently one of the tables at the very corner of the floor, with the long table intended for the wedding party on a raised dais to one side of them and the open expanse of the empty dance floor on another. Kyra breathes a sigh of relief at the realization that she will not be trapped in the middle of two hundred-odd strangers and looks around for the card with her name on it.

The seats at their table are all empty but it does not take her long to find the little blue sign with _Kyra Lavellan_ written in beautiful calligraphy. Her brow furrows as she looks at the place setting next to her, in front of the seat Cassandra is settling herself into, to find that instead of the large, easy-to-read lettering from the rest of the cards, the words on Cassandra’s card are tiny, barely legible even from where Kyra sits, and take up the entire front of the card. Kyra manages to make out _Cassandra Allegra Port_ \- before Cassandra, catching the direction of Kyra’s attention, scowls and snatches the card from the table.

“Leliana is not as amusing as she believes she is,” Cassandra mutters darkly and Kyra bites back a smile as she recognizes the signs of a long-standing feud.

“Do I even want to ask?”

The deepening of Cassandra’s scowl is the only answer Kyra needs.

The seats at their table slowly fill as the last stragglers arrive from the ceremony: a blond elf with facial tattoos that match no vallaslin Kyra has ever seen in the chair next to Cassandra, the flower girl from the ceremony next to him, then a human boy of about ten beside a raven-haired, golden-eyed woman who can only be his mother. They exchange somewhat stilted introductions - Zevran and his daughter Tascha and Morrigan with her son Kieran - and then there is time for little beyond exchanging pleasantries (and casual flirtation from Zevran to Cassandra that despite the lack of intent - she would have to be blind to miss the looks of adoration he throws Commander Tabris at her seat among the wedding party - draws an unhappy pout from Kyra that she does her best to conceal) before things start to kick off.

Between the dinner and the toasts and the cake (Cassandra and Kyra share a triumphant look at the sight of the lemon buttercream cake they had both lobbied for during the taste testing) Kyra does not have the attention to spare to be distressed by the number of people around her. She finds herself more entertained by her companions than she had anticipated, with Zevran’s cheerful good humor and Morrigan’s biting sarcasm and even the good-natured bickering of their children, whose interactions remind Kyra more of siblings than friends. By the time the tables have been cleared and the music started for the brides’ first dance, Kyra is relaxed and smiling, her arm warm where she leans against Cassandra.

She lets the quiet contentment fill her as she watches Leliana and Josephine waltz their way around the dance floor, eyes tracking every movement of their feet, committing the steps to memory. It is different than the dances she had learned with her clan but it doesn’t seem that complicated. The pair spin and twirl and dip each other, trading the lead back and forth with no pattern Kyra can see.

Their first dance ends, the dancers red-faced and grinning, and the next starts up. People trickle onto the dance floor in pairs and groups: Zevran pulls a smirking Lex out of the safety of her seat and out to dance while Tascha and Kieran join a gaggle of kids around their age at the edge of the floor, dancing as well as uncoordinated children are able. Morrigan and Cassandra remain in their seats, the former’s eyes fixed on her son as though afraid he will vanish if she looks away for even a moment, to all appearances completely ignoring Kyra and Cassandra’s continued existence.

From what Kyra can see, about half the dancers are following actual steps while the rest seem content to just move with the music, swaying with a partner or bouncing around with a group of friends. The music in question is calm, meant for slow dancing rather than anything more fast-paced, and Kyra is so distracted watching that it takes her far longer than it should to notice the way Cassandra watches her in turn, an indulgent smile playing on her lips.

“What?” she asks, a little defensive. Cassandra shakes her head.

“You are not required to spend the entire evening sitting here with me, you know,” she says. “If you wish to dance, you should.”

Kyra cannot help but laugh at the idea. If only it were that easy.

“I don’t think you understand just how much I cannot do that - I am _really_ not good around strangers.”

While it is something of an understatement, Kyra does not feel like trying to explain the way even the thought of attempting to insert herself into one of the groups of dancers elicits the beginnings of a panic response - shortness of breath, tightness in her chest, knots in her stomach. This is probably not the time for a frank discussion about her many personal issues. Besides, there is really only one person she has any desire to dance with tonight.

Cassandra fixes her a look that Kyra can’t interpret, equal parts long-suffering and fond, before rising to her feet in a fluid motion and holding her hand out to Kyra. Kyra just stares blankly at her, baffled, until Cassandra sighs.

“You won’t dance with strangers, so dance with me,” she says, like it’s that simple. Like that one sentence didn’t just break Kyra’s brain.

“You don’t like dancing.” It’s about the only thing Kyra can manage, too occupied trying to convince herself that this is something that is actually happening, that she isn’t dreaming or hallucinating. This is a terrible idea. This is, in fact, possibly the worst idea Cassandra has ever had and yet even though Kyra is fully aware of this, has the many, many reasons why she ought to refuse running through her head in high definition, she reaches out to curl her fingers around Cassandra’s and lets her friend (her _friend_ , dammit, and maybe if she repeats the word enough it’ll finally stick in her stupid brain) pull her to her feet.

Cassandra leads her out to an open spot at the edge of the dance floor, several feet of space between them and the nearest dancers, and pulls Kyra in until the distance between them is all but non-existent. Her hand settles at the curve of Kyra’s waist, long fingers burning like brands on the bare skin of her back and oh, Creators, why had she thought a backless dress was a good idea? She can feel the ridges of Cassandra’s fingertips, the roughness of her calluses against Kyra’s skin and it is going to drive her mad in short order. Kyra’s hand shakes as she lifts it to Cassandra’s shoulder in turn and their proximity makes her head spin, her breath catch in her throat. The warmth of Cassandra’s body, the scent of her skin, surrounds Kyra and all the steps she had spent the last half hour memorizing flee her mind.

“All right?” Cassandra asks, voice low and warm breath ghosting over Kyra’s ear. For a moment Kyra forgets how to breathe, lungs tight and unresponsive in her chest, and all she can do is nod. The heels she wears put her eyes level with Cassandra’s jaw and as close as they are standing she has to crane her neck to meet Cassandra’s gaze.

“Yeah,” she manages and if she sounds a little strangled then hopefully Cassandra will be kind enough to ignore it. “Yeah, I’m good.”

They start slow, with Cassandra guiding Kyra through steps she has only ever seen from the outside, and as the seconds tick by Kyra finds herself relaxing, adjusting to Cassandra’s nearness. The rigid way she holds herself starts to melt away, leaving her loose-limbed and calmer than she had thought herself capable of considering the situation. She grins at Cassandra as she finally, finally allows herself to have fun.

“I didn’t expect you to know how to dance,” she murmurs as Cassandra guides her through a complicated turn.

“I took lessons as a child,” she admits with a scowl that tells Kyra exactly how she felt about those lessons. Kyra snickers.

“Not your idea, I take it?”

Cassandra glares at her clear amusement and Kyra just smirks, unrepentant. “You are impossible.”

Kyra’s smile widens. “It’s been said.”

Cassandra releases her hold on Kyra’s waist to push her into a spin and Kyra takes that as a hint to let the topic drop. Instead of pressing the matter she adjusts their joined hands and alters her footwork just enough that when she steps close once more Cassandra’s hand ends up on Kyra’s shoulder as Kyra’s slips down to Cassandra’s waist, allowing her to usurp the lead.

Cassandra’s eyes widen in surprise as they slide smoothly into the new dynamic, Kyra guiding them through the steps and Cassandra following her lead.

“You didn’t think I’d let you have all the fun, did you?” Kyra asks, the delighted smile on Cassandra’s face softening what she had intended to be a tease into something fonder, almost intimate in a way that Kyra will probably regret later. She cannot bring herself to care just now, though, not with the way Cassandra is ducking her head to hide her blush, more adorable than someone so deadly has any right to be and Creators but Kyra is so in love with this woman it’s ridiculous.

Her step falters as she processes that thought, dawning horror driving away any semblance of coordination.

Oh. Oh, _fuck_.


	21. Chapter 21

“Are you all right?”

Concern fills Cassandra’s voice as her eyes track the way emotions flicker across Kyra’s face, searching for some explanation for her behavior. The quiet happiness has faded from her expression, replaced with concern and confusion and Kyra has to tear her gaze away as the guilt wells in her belly. They had been having _fun_.

“I - I’m fine,” she stammers and it is a lie, it is the biggest lie she can remember telling and she doesn’t even tell it _well_ , stuttering and shaking and she needs to get a grip on herself. _Now_. She pulls away from the warmth of Cassandra’s touch and her friend stares at her, eyes wide and hurt and the sight of it is a knife to Kyra’s chest. She wraps her arms around herself to still their trembling and takes several stumbling steps backward, putting more distance between them. For the first time since they met, she wants to be anywhere but near Cassandra.

“I need - I’m gonna get some air,” she mumbles, only half-intelligible, before she turns tail and flees. She doesn’t look back, can’t bear to see Cassandra’s reaction, just weaves her way through the crowd of wedding guests toward the door to the balcony.

Unlike the other reception venues available in town, this particular option boasts access to a balcony overlooking the hotel courtyard, wide and long and empty enough for Kyra to have a minor breakdown in relative privacy. She makes her way to the railing and leans out over it, fingers clenched around the wrought iron and evening air cool against her flushed face. Her breath comes in ragged gasps that sound like they have been punched from her.

She can’t do this. She _can’t_. She was barely coping with her crush on Cassandra, barely keeping herself together well enough to be a good friend. Love... Love was never supposed to be in the picture. She ducks her head, letting her loose curls fall forward to hide her face.

She remembers that evening on the riverwalk, remembers trying to convince herself to take a step back, concerned she was getting in too deep. In retrospect, she probably should have listened to herself then. Maybe then she wouldn’t be in this mess of a situation now.

A sigh escapes her at the thought. Oh, who is she trying to fool? She has been gone on Cassandra from day one; it was inevitable she would end up here. The only way to avoid it would have been to stay away from Cassandra from the start, to never even try to get to know her. And that idea is so much worse than the thought of spending the foreseeable future stupidly in love with a woman who does not - _cannot_ \- love her back that Kyra refuses to even think about it.

Which does not leave her much in the way of options. She is going to have to get ahold of herself lest her wayward heart spell the end of a friendship she values dearly. Assuming she can figure out how to even start doing so...

Before she can dwell on it for too long, the sound of the ballroom door opening alerts her to the presence of someone else on the balcony. She straightens out of her slump and does her best to smooth the signs of distress from her expression: the last thing she wants to deal with is some well-meaning stranger prying into her personal life.

Her polite smile shifts into a more genuine one at the sight of Josephine approaching her, dress and jewelry alike glittering in the light of the full moon. As she nears she regards Kyra with curiosity but not concern.

“I thought I saw you come out here,” she says in lieu of a greeting and Kyra gives a sheepish shrug.

“Got a little claustrophobic.” She leans back, propping herself up against the balcony railing. “You look amazing, by the way; everything does. It was a wonderful ceremony.”

This is clearly the right thing to say: Josephine’s face lights up and she beams at Kyra.

“Thank you. We’re both thrilled you could join us, you know.”

“You’re very generous,” Kyra murmurs, not entirely certain how she is supposed to respond to that. Before tonight the idea of Leliana being thrilled about anything would have sounded absurd - she seemed too closed off and dour to manage anything more than “mildly pleased.” Especially with regards to anything involving Kyra. But Josephine’s words spark a thought that has been niggling at the back of Kyra’s mind for weeks now and she jumps at the chance of a distraction from all the things she has no desire to think about. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.” Josephine joins Kyra at the railing and stares down at the courtyard below. Kyra chews on her lower lip as she searches for the right way to phrase it: she would hate to accidentally insult either Josephine or Leliana with poorly-chosen words, especially tonight.

“I’m curious,” she begins, “how much of Cassandra’s decision to invite me was Leliana’s doing.”

There is a pregnant pause. “What do you mean?” Josephine asks carefully, and that is enough to tell Kyra that her concerns are not entirely unfounded. She sighs.

“Something Cassandra said, back when the topic first came up. Apparently Leliana had been pressuring her to bring someone to the wedding, to the point of trying to set her up.” Kyra pauses, idly plucking at the seam of her glove as she picks her words. “I don’t know Leliana all that well, admittedly, but that doesn’t seem like her style - it’s too obvious. And she had to have known how ineffective it would be: there is no way Cassandra would accept being set up with anyone. Which makes me think that maybe Leliana had a different goal in mind. Considering both the outcome and the way Leliana took it upon herself to make sure I had everything I could possibly need for the event like some sort of terrifying fairy godmother, you’ll forgive me if I have some suspicions as to what that goal was.”

Not that she thinks Cassandra’s invitation was anything other than genuine - as far as Kyra can tell, everything she had said that night had been the truth. But that doesn’t mean it would have even occurred to Cassandra to ask _anyone_ had it not been for Leliana’s pestering.

At the end of her explanation she looks over at Josephine - who is looking at her with an unflattering amount of surprise - and has to resist the urge to sigh again. “Like I said to Leliana, I’m shy, not stupid. And the thing about being terrified of people is that you get pretty good at reading them, if only to know how best to avoid them.”

Josephine nods, thoughtful. “People underestimate you often, don’t they?” There is a degree of empathy in her voice and Kyra finds herself smiling even as she shrugs. Soft and gentle as Josephine may seem, Kyra has never doubted that those traits hide a core of steel. She would never have survived a relationship with Leliana otherwise. Kyra suspects she is not the only one accustomed to being underestimated.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she points out, opting to leave their unspoken understanding just that - unspoken. Josephine laughs lightly.

“You never asked one.” She smiles at Kyra, sly and teasing, and Kyra has a moment’s regret that she never bothered to get to know Josephine better: she thinks they might get on better than she had originally suspected. “Do you regret it? That Cassandra invited you, that is.”

Kyra considers the question, weighing her enjoyment of the evening against the emotional upheaval of the last ten minutes. It is not difficult to find her answer.

“No,” she says, “I don’t.”

“Then why worry about it?” Josephine places a gentle hand on Kyra’s arm, just below the edge of her glove. “Cassandra invited you because she wanted you here with her. What does it matter what gave her the idea to do so?”

Kyra inclines her head, a silent acknowledgement of Josephine’s point. The other woman nods sharply and straightens up, slender hands fussing with her skirt. With a smile that is a little too self-satisfied for Kyra’s peace of mind, she murmurs, “And on that note, if you will excuse me, I think it’s time for me to track down my wife.”

Kyra watches Josephine make her way back into the ballroom and startles when she sees someone else standing just inside the door. Cassandra is watching Kyra with a frown, her posture uncharacteristically hesitant, as though uncertain of her welcome. Guilt hits Kyra like a physical blow - _she_ did that, she is the reason Cassandra looks like that - but she shoves it aside in favor of offering her most welcoming smile, ruthlessly squashing down any nerves or hesitance. The last thing she wants is for Cassandra to think that Kyra is upset at her: it is hardly her fault Kyra can’t keep control of her own damn emotions.

Cassandra steps out to join her on the balcony, eyes on Kyra’s face and hands clasped together behind her back (and Kyra refuses to notice the way the stance pulls her suit jacket tight across her shoulders and chest).

“Are you -” she begins but trails off before she finishes the question, likely recalling the rather disastrous response that same question had evoked the last time. Kyra ducks her head with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” she offers as she searches for a way to explain her behavior that does not involve ill-advised emotional confessions. “I didn’t mean to freak out on you like that.”

She turns around to look out over the balcony, leaning over it and propping herself up with her forearms braced against the railing. Cassandra moves to her side, a shield against the evening breeze.

“What happened?” While Cassandra does not sound angry there is a firmness to her tone that says she will not be fobbed off with half-assed excuses. Not that Kyra is inclined to try: Cassandra deserves better from her than that, especially after what has just happened. She sighs.

“I got a little overwhelmed,” she admits, though she does not say by what. That information is hardly relevant, anyway. “Or a lot overwhelmed, I guess. I panicked and probably confused the hell out of you in the process. So, yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Does that happen often?” Cassandra asks in that same quietly insistent tone, more curiosity and concern than judgment.

 _What, falling in love with you? Can’t say that it does, no._ But no, that’s not what Cassandra means and Kyra knows it.

“Not as often as it used to,” she says instead, uncomfortably reminded of a time less than a year ago when any more than about three people in a room together would send her into a full-blown anxiety attack. She does not miss those days. “They’ve been getting better.”

The corners of Cassandra’s mouth turn down as she considers this. “Should I be concerned?”

Kyra huffs out a humorless laugh. And oh, isn’t _that_ the question? Once again, not quite in the way Cassandra intends it, but still. Is it going to be a problem? Kyra isn’t certain how to answer that, even to herself. She doesn’t _want_ it to be a problem, doesn’t want Cassandra to have to worry about Kyra’s unrequited affections. She does not want her new feelings (the revelation of feelings, she should say: there is nothing new about them and that fact terrifies Kyra almost more than their existence does - how long has she felt this way and just not realized it?) to affect their friendship.

But can she really prevent that? Is she strong enough - stubborn enough, more like - to keep going forward like nothing has happened, to keep her interest (her love, call it what it is, damn it) from interfering in being Cassandra’s friend?

She is going to have to. The alternative isn’t even an option.

“No,” she says at last, answering both Cassandra’s question and her own. No, it won’t be a problem. No, she shouldn’t be concerned. “I’ve got it under control.” She hopes.

Cassandra looks at her for a long moment and Kyra can see her mind whirling behind those sharp eyes, weighing her words and judging her honesty. Finally, just as Kyra starts to fidget with nerves, Cassandra gives a solemn nod and some of the tension slips from her.

“Very well,” she says and Kyra knows that the incident had been, if not forgotten, then at least set aside. She can’t help the almost hysterical laughter that bubbles out of her: how the fuck is this woman even real? Cassandra raises an eyebrow but does not comment on her sudden hysteria.

“For what it’s worth,” Kyra sighs as her giggles subside, “I’m sorry - again - for ruining your evening.”

“You didn’t.”

Kyra shoots Cassandra a disbelieving look - _don’t lie to me_ \- that Cassandra answers with nothing more than an arched eyebrow - _don’t be a fool_ \- and Kyra could kiss her for that (Kyra could kiss her for a lot of things - such as existing - but she’s not thinking about that. She’s _not_ ). It is a relief to know that they can still do this, still speak without the need for words, that Kyra hasn’t ruined everything irreparably.

She sighs as a weight lifts from her shoulders and tilts her face up toward the night sky. The breeze chooses that moment to hit her full in her upturned face, raising goosebumps on her skin and forcing her to acknowledge the way she has been fighting off shivers from the moment she stepped outside. Without the distraction of her own internal drama, they seem to hit her all at once and she is just starting to consider the merits of a tactical retreat back to the reception when there is a shuffle of motion at her side and a warm weight drops across her shoulders.

She startles so badly she knocks into Cassandra, who she hadn’t even noticed moving behind her, and it is only after Cassandra reaches out to steady her with her hands on Kyra’s biceps that she realizes that she is now draped in Cassandra’s suit jacket, the thick material doing wonders to protect her from the chill in the air.

She blinks at the jacket and Cassandra both but Cassandra just shakes her head in a fond sort of despair.

“An entire hotel’s worth of hiding places to choose from and yet somehow you still manage to end up in the coldest one. You have no sense of self-preservation at all, do you?”

Kyra blushes even as she shrugs. The jacket smells like Cassandra, an improbable combination of gun oil and rose petals, and Kyra wants to bury her face in it and stay there for the rest of the evening, let the party continue on without her. She resists, if only just, and instead slips her arms into the too-long sleeves so that she is wearing it properly instead of draped across her shoulders like a cloak. The tips of her gloves are just barely visible, peeking out from the sleeve opening, and a simple jacket should not make her feel this warm, this safe. It’s ridiculous.

“I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly,” she admits as she wraps the jacket tighter around her. “Thank you, though.”

This earns her another of Cassandra’s concerned-frowny faces and she glances toward the crowded ballroom for a moment before looking back at Kyra.

“We can leave if you’re uncomfortable,” Cassandra offers. Because of course she does. Kyra shakes her head.

“I’m fine. I mean it this time. I escaped the crowd for a bit and Josephine kept me distracted through the worst of it. Just give me a few more minutes and I’ll be good to head back in.” If nothing else, she hasn’t gotten a chance to speak with Leliana yet, though as far as what she plans to say to her goes Kyra is still undecided. Probably some ill-advised combination of congratulations on her wedding, thanks for the dress, and chastisement for meddling (that she is not deluded enough to think will have any effect at all, but the effort must be made).

“Should I leave you alone, then?” Cassandra asks. “Or would you prefer company?”

And Kyra knows she should ask for solitude: how is she supposed to focus on dealing with her feelings with Cassandra standing right next to her, all distracting and wonderful? But the look on Cassandra’s face when Kyra ran away refuses to leave her alone, the memory made sharp with guilt, and she refuses to be responsible for putting that look back any time soon. Or ever again, if she can help it. So she slants Cassandra a smile and lets her eyes soften.

“If the company is yours? Always.”


	22. Chapter 22

It takes five days of self-imposed isolation on Kyra's part for Dorian to confront her about it, which is about four days longer than she had expected. She chalks the difference up to the fact that final exams have chased all the students of Skyhold University into self-imposed isolation for the week as they frantically attempt to cram information into their brains: amid such chaos, her own sudden-onset hermit act is less notable than it might otherwise have been.

But on Friday afternoon she closes up the lab after the last of her students have turned in their final (and Kyra wants to strangle Roderick for instituting _that_ requirement: what possible purpose does a written final serve in an introductory lab? if they have to have a final at all, a practical would have made far more sense) to find Dorian leaning against the wall in a slouch that is far too graceful to be at all accidental, talking to Sera and wearing an expression of delighted horror. Dread creeps into the pit of Kyra’s stomach at the sight of the two of them getting along - she is certain that should Dorian and Sera start to bond it would spell nothing but trouble (and an unfortunate number of headaches) for her. Those two could prove to be a disaster were they to put their minds to it. She quickly moves to slip between them and Sera cackles as though she knows exactly what Kyra is trying to accomplish and finds it hilarious. With barely a goodbye, Sera sprints off down the hall, almost crashing into Dagna as she rounds the corner. Kyra watches the two of them disappear to go work whatever mischief they have planned and wonders if she is ever going to understand that girl. She doubts it.

Once they are alone, Dorian turns his full attention to Kyra.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says and a guilty flush rises in Kyra’s cheeks.

“I’ve been avoiding everyone,” she admits, as though that makes any difference at all, for all that it’s the truth: she has hardly left her apartment for anything other than her exams since she got back from Leliana and Josephine’s wedding. The idea of having to deal with anyone else has been a little more than she has felt ready to handle after her rather distressing revelation that night. It has been far easier not to think about it. Or about anything at all beyond finals.

Dorian just arches an unimpressed eyebrow at her, her objection just as pointless as she had expected it would be; avoiding everyone is hardly new for her - avoiding _Dorian_ is. She sighs and leans against the wall beside him, their shoulders knocking companionably.

“I don’t suppose you’ll accept ‘finals week’ as an excuse?” She can’t quite keep the hope from her voice, her eyes wide and pleading as she stares up at him. It’s just her luck that all of her friends seem to be immune to that particular look: Dorian’s expression does not so much as flicker and her entire body slumps in defeat. “What about ‘please don’t make me talk about it without a disgusting amount of alcohol on hand’?”

At that Dorian huffs out a breath that Kyra thinks is supposed to be a laugh but no matter how much she tries she cannot find any humor in the sound.

“If that’s the case, I’ll join you and we can trade stories.”

The flat tone of Dorian’s voice sets alarm bells blaring through Kyra’s mind. She straightens off the wall and turns to focus on Dorian, to look at him properly for the first time in days. She has to bite back a cry of dismay at what she sees - dark bags under bloodshot eyes, lips pressed tight in suppressed emotion, hands clenched into fists at his side. Something is very wrong with her friend and she has been so preoccupied with her own problems that she hadn’t even noticed. What the hell kind of friend does that make her?

Well, she will just have to be a better one from here out, she decides and links her arm through Dorian’s to pull him from the wall.

“Right. It looks like you and I have a date at the Herald’s Rest starting approximately now. Let’s get out of here.”

Though Dorian rolls his eyes he does not protest as she drags him down the hall toward the exit, glaring at anyone who gets in her way. She should probably be more concerned about the fact that they are headed to a bar at three in the afternoon, but they are both grown-ass adults, finals are officially over, and she has exactly zero responsibilities for the next three months beyond attempting to make some progress on her thesis. She cannot bring herself to care about propriety right now.

 

* * *

 

They make it to the Herald’s Rest (which is busier than Kyra had expected considering the time - she blames the end of finals week) and settle into their usual booth in the corner where Dorian promptly orders them both enough shots for Kyra to realize that he had taken her requirement of a “disgusting amount of alcohol” seriously. She cannot say she objects to the idea.

Once their waitress has returned with a tray loaded down with drinks, Dorian holds up his first shot, having forgone his usual bright, fruity concoctions in favor of something clear enough to pass for water (at least until you got close enough to smell it) that Kyra finds far more intimidating.

“To life fucking you over,” he announces and Kyra raises her own drink in agreement before throwing it back.

“Oh, that is revolting,” she chokes out, her throat on fire from whatever it was she just drank. Lighter fluid, judging by the taste.

“I did not order it for the taste.” Dorian, the bastard, does not seem bothered in the slightest. Kyra sticks her burning tongue out at him. The heat of the alcohol floods her stomach and it occurs to her that she really should have thought to order some sort of food to go with their drinks.

“Fuck off, you asshole,” she grumbles and Dorian just preens like the insult is the nicest compliment he has ever received. He traces the tip of his finger along the rim of his empty glass, watching her expectantly.

“I have provided the requisite alcohol,” he points out. “I believe you promised me an explanation.”

Kyra makes a face: that wasn’t the only promise she made.

“You first,” she insists. “I clearly missed something important while I was hiding from the world.”

Dorian frowns at her, stubborn and determined, and Kyra meets with with a glare and a lift of her chin. There is a long silence as they stare at each other, waiting for the other to give in, until Kyra finally sighs.

“For fuck’s sake. Fine. Both of us, on the count of three. Fair enough?”

Dorian’s brow wrinkles as he considers it, the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes deepening. Finally, he nods.

“I suppose it’s acceptable.”

They hold each other’s gaze as though daring the other to back out. Kyra almost laughs at the sheer absurdity of the situation, but she is pretty sure that would be admitting some sort of defeat. Instead she just starts counting, not looking away from Dorian.

“One. Two. Three.”

Their next words are a jumbled mess as they both talk over one another.

“My father called me last night.”

“I’m in love with Cassan - wait, _what_?”

Kyra stares at him, mouth gaping unattractively. That is... not anything like what she had been expecting. She had thought maybe a fight with Alexius or a problem with his research. Funding that didn’t go through. Something. Not...not this. Though she should probably not be as surprised as she is - Dorian had told her months ago that his father was trying to track him down. If he is anything like his son, of course he didn’t stop until he found him.

“Yeah, you’re going first,” she decides and waves Dorian off when he tries to protest. “Nope. My sad and pathetic excuse for a love life isn’t going anywhere any time soon. We can deal with that after you give me all the information I need to hunt your father down and kick him in the balls.”

Dorian presses the fingers of his left hand to his temple as he downs another shot. “That is not necessary.”

Kyra shrugs, because “necessary” isn’t really the point of it, is it? “It’d be fun, though. And satisfying. At least until he presses charges; he seems like a guy who presses charges.”

Dorian inclines his head, which Kyra takes as confirmation. She claps her hands together and sits up straighter in her seat, the hard plastic of the booth squeaking in protest at her movement.

“Right, so. Details.”

The empty glass in Dorian’s hands flashes in the light as he twists it between nimble fingers. His mouth curls, not a smile and not quite a frown, just quietly thoughtful.

“There isn’t much to tell. I wish I knew how he found my phone number - I know Felix didn’t give it to him, nor Professor Alexius- but at this point it hardly matters.” Two shots go down in quick succession and though Dorian shows no sign that he even feels it Kyra’s own throat burns in sympathy. Dorian makes a face at the empty glasses. “He found me: determining _how_ is not going to change that fact.”

Kyra winces: hearing Dorian, who pursues knowledge more doggedly than anyone Kyra has ever known, say something like that only drives home just how much this entire situation is getting to him. She would have expected him to insist on tracking down whoever gave his father his number and exacting retribution. The fact that he doesn’t is more worrying than she cares to admit. But she can’t exactly admit that, not now, so instead she just asks, “What did he want?”

“To _meet_ with me.” Dorian sounds like he can’t quite believe the words coming out of his mouth. Kyra quirks an eyebrow.

“Did he say why?”

“Apparently he wants to ‘make amends’.” Dorian scoffs, a lifetime’s worth of bitterness in the sound. “As though I am moronic enough to believe that. No, he has some other goal in mind and while I don’t know what, I have some ideas. None of them are good.”

Kyra hums before taking a shot of her own, already well behind Dorian, who is drinking like he has something to prove. Or something to forget.

“What are you going to do about it?” she asks rather than pressing for elaboration - if he wanted to share his theories, he would have done so without her prompting. “I assume you have a plan of some sort? If not, I’d be happy to offer some suggestions.” She shoots him her most earnest, “you can totally trust me I swear” grin and he shakes his head at her.

“Go ahead,” he says in the reluctant tone of someone who knows they are going to regret this. Her answering chuckle is a little more gleeful than necessary.

“Okay, first thought: you set up a meeting, I go instead, I punch him in the face, record it, and post it to YouTube. We become overnight internet sensations and your father stops trying to interfere in your life.”

Dorian huffs a laugh and it is the closest to amused she has heard him sound all afternoon. “You do realize that he is a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than you are, right? I can’t see that ending as well as you seem to think it will.”

Kyra just shrugs again. It’s not like she is planning on following through with these ideas; they’re just idle fantasies that she’s kind of hoping will help Dorian calm down a little. If she’s lucky, maybe she can even get him to smile properly.

“Fine. My second idea is to do the exact same thing, only I get Bull to punch him instead of me. He’s bigger and scarier than I am and can hit harder.”

Dorian presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose but the corners of his mouth are twitching. “Do any of your suggestions _not_ include assaulting my father?”

Kyra taps her chin with her finger, pretending to consider it.

“Well, there’s the one where we convince Cassandra to arrest him, but that one’s not as personally satisfying and besides, she wouldn’t go for it unless we can prove that he actually did something and that’ll take more work than I was really intending to put into it. If that doesn’t suit your tastes, we could give Sera and Dagna his contact information and sit back and watch whatever havoc they wreak: I’m sure it would be glorious. And failing that, I bet Leliana knows some assassins...”

This time Dorian actually does smile and Kyra fights the urge to punch the air in triumph. Victory is hers and it is sweet. She nudges Dorian’s shin with the toe of her sneaker.

“Seriously, though. How do you want to handle this? You know I’ve got your back, whatever you decide.”

“I know.” His smile this time is fond and the tension lines around his eyes have all but faded away. “He isn’t going to leave me alone - he doesn’t know how - so I might as well see what he’s planning.” He sounds far from thrilled with the prospect. Kyra nudges him again.

“You want company when you see him?” she offers, because she knows he won’t ask even if he does. Dorian shrugs.

“I wouldn’t say no,” he says casually, as though he doesn’t care one way or the other. It makes Kyra roll her eyes: that act stopped working on her months ago, if it had even worked to begin with.

“That settles it, then. I’m coming with you and I will manfully attempt to refrain from instigating any kind of physical altercation with your shithead father. Because I’m thoughtful that way.”

Dorian snorts but the look he sends her way is more relieved than she thinks he intends to show. “Your restraint is appreciated.”

While he waves their server down to replenish his depleted supply of alcohol, Kyra leans back in her seat with her arms crossed over her chest.

“So is there anything I should know going into what I’m certain will prove to be a delightful family reunion?” she asks, careful to keep her voice light. She doesn’t want Dorian to think she is prying, does not want to push him into telling her anything he isn’t ready to.

A frown tugs at the corners of Dorian’s generous mouth. “Only that, whatever he might say to the contrary, the only thing he truly cares about is his legacy, the mark he will leave on the world. I left when it became clear that I didn’t fit his idea of what the proper heir to that legacy should be. We haven’t spoken since the day I packed my bags and I didn’t expect we ever would again. It seems he has other ideas.”

Kyra scowls around the burn of her latest shot. “Dorian?” she says, and there is a petulant whine in her voice. “I really don’t like your dad.”

With a bitter laugh, Dorian steals the last of her shots and lifts it into the air like a toast before downing it without a word. Kyra pouts at her now-empty glasses.

“Flissa is on her way with more,” Dorian assures her. She considers this: she knows, logically, that she probably ought to cut herself off. While she is not exactly a lightweight, she has had enough alcohol already that should she try and stand she would wobble more than she would walk. And beyond that, she does not need to get in the habit of trying to drink her problems away, no matter how tempting it might sound.

The waitress arrives as Kyra is debating with herself and to her relief her tray contains, not more shots of Creators-only-know what alcohol, but a pint of some dark beer and one of Dorian’s disgustingly colorful mixed drinks. That, she can handle.

She murmurs her thanks to Flissa and takes a sip, the cool taste of the beer a welcome relief after the burn of their earlier shots. There is a moment of quiet as the two of them focus on their new drinks before Dorian settles back in his seat, one long-fingered hand wrapped around his glass, and fixes Kyra with a smirk (while it is a little forced, Kyra is polite enough not to mention it).

“So, Lavellan, I do believe it is your turn to rail against the injustices of the world.”

Kyra wrinkles her nose. “Is that what we’re doing?” she asks. “I thought we were just complaining about how much our lives suck.”

Dorian tilts his head to the side in a silent “eh” gesture. “Mine sounds more impressive,” he points out, “and less like we’re a pair of whining teenagers.”

The mental image makes Kyra choke on a laugh. “Why do I get the feeling that you were a pain in the ass as a teenager?”

“Probably because I was,” Dorian says with a grin and Kyra can see it: teenage Dorian with long hair and piercings (she has seen the marks they left behind - he can’t deny their existence), rebellious and dramatic and so brilliant it hurts. She meets his cocky grin with a fond one of her own and just like that the atmosphere sobers, more comfortable than before but just as serious.

Dorian arches an eyebrow at her but doesn’t push: he doesn’t have to and he knows it. She grumbles as she runs a hand through her hair, pulling it out of her face.

“I don’t really know what you want me to say,” she says with a soft little sigh. “I’m pretty sure I covered the important part already.”

The frown Dorian shoots her way is more disappointed than anything else and Kyra winces at the sight of it.

“What?” she demands. “I’m a fucking idiot who went and fell in love with a straight woman; what more do you want me to say?”

“What do you intend to do about it?” he presses, hands folded together on the table like some sort of relationship guru. The sheer ridiculousness of the situation - honestly, she cannot think of anyone _less_ suited to doling out relationship advice except maybe Kyra herself - makes her drop her head to the table with a tired groan.

“I don’t _intend_ to do anything about it,” she grumbles, the words muffled by the wood of the table. Condensation from her various glasses has left the table more than a little damp and her cheek is resting in a small puddle of cold water. It is not the most comfortable position she has ever been in.

“Not at all? Are you certain that’s wise?” Dorian asks and Kyra lifts her head enough to glower at him.

“What part of ‘straight woman’ was in any way unclear?” she demands, because it’s not like she hasn’t thought about it, all right? She has most definitely thought about it, about confessing all her stupid feelings to Cassandra and having them - impossibly, unthinkably, astoundingly - returned, about the happily ever after that will never, ever happen. But just because she thinks about it doesn’t mean she is anywhere near deluded enough to believe it. She is well aware of the difference between fantasy and reality, thanks ever so much.

Dorian sighs and smooths down his mustache with one hand. “That’s not what I meant. I meant that you have been spending a fair amount of time with her recently. Are you certain that’s the best thing for you, all things considered? What does it accomplish beyond torturing yourself?”

There is a quiet pain in Dorian’s voice that speaks of experience and the sound of it has Kyra biting back her initial, bitter response. He wants to help her, she knows, and is trying to do so as best he knows how. It’s hardly his fault that she has spent the last week having this exact argument with herself so many times she is sick to death of it. So instead of snapping out some angry retort, she shrugs.

“Cost-benefit analysis,” she says, because even in the midst of emotional turmoil she is still a giant nerd and it is so much easier to treat everything as numbers and equations rather than people and feelings and other messy, unquantifiable things. “Spending time with her - as her _friend_ \- is more enjoyable than it is painful and until such time as that becomes untrue I have every intention of continuing on exactly as I have been. I don’t have enough friends that I can throw one away just because of some stupid emotions.”

Dorian hums and Kyra knows he remains unconvinced, but she cannot bring herself to care. She has made her decision and as much as she loves Dorian he is not going to change her mind.

“Look, I’m not asking you to agree with me - I’m not even sure _I_ agree with me. I know I’m being stupid and emotional and there is every chance that this will all turn into a disaster and you’ll get to say ‘I told you so’ but until then I just... can we not argue about it? Please?”

There is a long pause as Dorian studies her, watching her with pale eyes that Kyra knows see more than most and she tries not to squirm under the scrutiny. Finally he heaves a tired sigh.

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” he says. Kyra has to fight the urge to clamber over the table to envelop him in a hug.

“I know,” she replies quietly, “but at this point I’m pretty sure there’s no helping that.”

The corners of Dorian’s mouth pull down in an unhappy moue. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he mutters and Kyra laughs, dark and bitter as the drink in her hand.

“You and me both, Pavus. You and me both.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so you know how I promised a few of you a relaxed, fluffy chapter? Yeah. This is not that chapter.
> 
> Also, for those of you who haven't seen it yet there is definitely a ridiculous Pokemon-related side story up [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6427330/chapters/17073265), if you're interested.

When Kyra’s phone buzzes with a text message at one thirty in the morning, she doesn’t think too much of it. It would hardly be the first time Dorian texted her in the middle of the night from a bar or a party or a friend’s house in order to invite her to join him, ask for a ride home, or just share some story or joke that could not wait until a more reasonable hour. And it’s not like the message interrupts anything: though she should have gone to bed hours ago, Kyra is still camped out on her couch in her pajamas, halfway through a carton of leftover General Tso’s chicken and an impromptu bad action movie marathon. But when she reaches over to grab her phone from the coffee table it is not Dorian’s name staring up at her from underneath the “New Message” alert: it is Cassandra’s. And that _is_ unusual.

_I am beginning to think that Varric’s only purpose in life is to aggravate me._

Kyra frowns at the message, perplexed, even as she types out her response.

_wtf. why are you raging at varric at 1 in the morning? dwelling is not healthy._

It is only after she sends the text that she sees the time stamp on Cassandra’s message and she has to bury her face in her empty hand with an embarrassed whine: _6:43 pm_. Cassandra had sent it nearly seven hours ago. A string of curses slips from Kyra’s lips as her fingers fly across her phone’s keyboard.

_fuck im sorry - for some reason my phone only just got your message. i hope i didnt wake you up or anything_

She drops her phone into her lap before grabbing the pillow from behind her back and using it to muffle her shriek of frustration. This is so very much _not_ what she needed to happen today. Just as she is starting to consider her options - moving to the Anderfels is sounding more enticing by the moment - her phone buzzes once more. It takes her a minute to process that fact enough to pick the damn thing up (in her defense, it’s late, she’s tired, and she wasn’t actually expecting Cassandra to reply until morning - unlike Kyra, Cassandra should have the sense _not_ to stay up all night just because she can).

 _It is fine; I was already awake,_ her text reads and Kyra feels her lips twitch into a pout: she hates it when she’s wrong.

_why??? dont you have work in like six hours? go to sleep you idiot_

In the time it takes Cassandra to respond there are two separate explosions and a garrotting on the movie that Kyra has long since stopped paying attention to (it’s not like she was watching for the plot in the first place). When she does reply, the message is surprisingly forthcoming.

_I would love to. Unfortunately I have an entire pile of evidence left to sort through so that I can return it in the morning. Should you not take your own advice?_

Kyra snorts; yes, she definitely should, but Cassandra has just ensured that she will do nothing of the sort in the foreseeable future.

 _please. its summer - i am officially responsibility-free for the next three months. which means all night movie marathons and staying up inexcusably late for no particular reason._ She had planned to leave it at that, let the conversation lapse and leave Cassandra to her work, but instead of sending it she bites her lip and stares down the length of her couch to where her toes poke out from beneath the edge of her blanket. Nothing good ever comes of spur-of-the-moment decisions made after midnight, she knows this, and yet...

She hasn’t seen Cassandra since the wedding, hasn’t spoken to her save a few brief texts in the same time. She had bailed on their usual Saturday plans with only the vaguest of excuses in order to stay home and nurse the low-level panic that has been her constant companion for the last week and a half. And she knows it probably makes her a sap and an idiot and all sorts of other things but the truth of the matter is that she misses Cassandra. Which is, quite frankly, ridiculous, but so be it. She adds another few lines to the text before sending it on its way: _if youre going to be up for a while, ive been planning on a caffeine run - i can totally bring you something._

It’s a lie - she has been quite comfortably ensconced on her couch in her pajamas for hours with no intention of moving anytime soon. But even through the few texts she has sent Cassandra sounds exhausted and Kyra itches to help. There isn’t much she can do about the amount of work Cassandra has to do, but there is nothing stopping her from doing what she can to make it easier. And if that entails late-night expeditions to the town’s only twenty four hour coffeeshop, then that’s what she’ll do.

She ignores the part of her mind that insists she is just looking for an excuse to see Cassandra - it turns out that avoiding her is much easier when they’re not in contact, when Kyra can distract herself well enough with unrelated tasks and daily activities that she doesn't have the attention to spare to think about just what (or who) she is missing. With Cassandra _right there_ (in a manner of speaking, at least, her words staring up at Kyra from her phone screen) where Kyra cannot avoid thinking about her, it is so much harder to keep her distance.

But really, she decides, even if that’s true, what difference does it make? She wants to see Cassandra and she wants to help her. If she can do both at the same time then why shouldn’t she?

Of course, that all hinges on Cassandra _letting_ her help: she is not going to force her presence (or her assistance) where it is not wanted. If Cassandra would rather be alone, then Kyra will respect that.

Okay, she might pout a bit and generally be a little sulky, but only in private. Thankfully, Cassandra’s next text keeps her from having to dwell too long on that thought.

_I would not want to impose._

Which is definitely not a “no,” and Kyra rolls her eyes.

_you do realize the only coffeshop in town thats open right now is literally a block and a half from your house, right? if you dont want to be distracted or dont want to be up long or whatever thats fine but ill be in the area anyway._

There is nearly a mile between them but even so Kyra would swear she can hear Cassandra’s sigh when she receives Kyra’s response.

_As you wish. I will not pretend I would not welcome the company._

Kyra grins down at her phone, relishing the thrill of her (probably imagined) victory. The smile doesn’t waver as she sends her reply ( _any drink preferences? no cole so youll have to choose something yourself_ ) and casts around for her shoes. She considers taking the time to change into actual real people clothes but decides she can’t be bothered; her Star Wars pajama pants will serve well enough. It’s not like she is trying to impress Cassandra or anything (and even if she were - which she isn’t, because that would be pointless - the last time she saw Cassandra, Kyra was all dressed up for the wedding: anything is going to look drab in comparison).

Cassandra’s next text comes in just as Kyra is grabbing her keys. _As long as it has caffeine, I do not care_.

_k. be there in ~30 min_

 

* * *

 

Through no fault of her own it ends up closer to forty minutes before Kyra arrives at Cassandra’s front door (it seems everyone moves a little slower at two in the morning, baristas included, and she spends far longer inside the shop than she had anticipated). Knocking requires a bit of juggling, a rearranging of her cargo until she has two oversized paper coffee cups - one full, one already half-empty - precariously balanced in her right hand and her left free. The door swings open in seconds and Kyra winces at the sight that greets her.

“You look terrible.”

She winces again as soon as the words leave her mouth but she does not rescind them. Tactful or not, they are accurate: Cassandra looks exhausted, face drawn and hair a mess, still dressed in her work clothes (though they, too, have been in better condition), the spark in her eyes dimmed. The overall effect makes the irritated glare she sends Kyra for her comment less intimidating than usual, like a drowned cat trying to appear frightening. She flicks her gaze down to Kyra’s own wrinkled pajama bottoms, one eyebrow arched as though to say “like you have any room to talk,” and Kyra wisely refrains from verbalizing any further observations.

Without another word Kyra thrusts the full cup into Cassandra’s hands and pushes her way through the door and into the house. She has been here once or twice before, quick drive-bys when Cassandra needed to pick something up or drop something off, but she had never made it any farther than the front porch and while she does not take the time to thoroughly examine her surroundings there are certain things she cannot help but notice even in a brief glance. The living room is sparse, with little in the way of decoration or extraneous furniture, but what is there - couch, entertainment center, coffee table, bookcases - is solid and sturdy. On the coffee table and the floor in front of the television sits what appears to be an entire forest’s worth of papers and folders, strewn about with no apparent rhyme or reason. This, she assumes, is the source of Cassandra’s current problems. Some sort of History Channel special is playing on the TV, the presenter’s voice monotone enough that Kyra is surprised it didn’t put Cassandra straight to sleep.

Seeing the direction of Kyra’s attention, Cassandra shrugs.

“I sent Cullen to get some sleep a few hours ago. With constant low-level background noise, it is far less likely that any occasional outbursts on my part will disturb him enough to wake him.”

Kyra runs that sentence through her internal Cassandra-to-normal-person translator and snickers at what she comes up with.

“You were yelling at inanimate objects again, weren’t you?”

Cassandra glares at her over the rim of her cup and with the way she is downing that thing Kyra is starting to wonder if she should have ordered a larger size (she doesn’t think they _make_ a larger size, but still).

“I did not _yell_ ,” she protests. Kyra hops up to sit on the arm of the couch with a smirk, resting her own half-empty drink on her knee.

“The fact that the only part of that you object to is the volume is very telling,” she points out, laughing at Cassandra’s responding noise of disgust. Cassandra stalks past her to sit on the couch properly with a pointed look at Kyra’s perch that she chooses to ignore - if Cassandra truly had a problem with her choice of seat, she would not hesitate to say as much.

“So how can I help?” she asks as she spins around so that she faces the mess on the coffee table instead of the entry way. She pulls her feet up to balance cross-legged on the arm of the couch, some six inches between her knee and Cassandra’s shoulder. It has not escaped her notice how Cassandra has situated herself just far enough from the corner of the couch that, should she so desire, Kyra could slide down and fit comfortably if snugly between Cassandra’s side and the arm of the couch.

And she wants to; Creators, does she want to. She wants to slip into that empty space, press herself to Cassandra’s side, take her hand and twine their fingers together in a silent show of support, in the hope that the touch might help to ground Cassandra.

She does none of that, though, no matter how tempted she is. Instead she shifts so that she is settled more comfortably on her perch, her fingers tapping out an uneven rhythm on the soft cotton of her pants, and waits for Cassandra to consider her question.

“I could not begin to guess,” Cassandra finally says, staring out over the spread of papers before her, eyes distant in a way that tells Kyra that she is seeing something far different than a mess of files. “Varric was here earlier,” she adds and Kyra nods.

“Yeah, I kinda gathered as much from your text. I take it it didn’t go well?”

The corner of Cassandra’s mouth quirks into something that might almost be considered a smile were it not so tired - the influx of caffeine does not seem to be having the same revitalizing effect on her that it is on Kyra. “It went no worse than you might expect. Varric was Varric and seemed to delight in antagonizing me.”

Kyra smothers her laugh with the last dregs of her drink. “Of course he did,” she says as soon as she can speak without snickering, the words accompanied with a solemn nod, “the jerk.” Privately she thinks that Varric would not harass Cassandra nearly so much if Cassandra did not react so dramatically: if she could manage to suppress the urge to throttle him any time he opens his mouth, Kyra would put money on him quickly losing interest and leaving her (mostly) alone.

Of course, the more she learns about their somewhat tumultuous relationship the more Kyra suspects that in a warped kind of way Cassandra actually appreciates their interactions, enjoys the opportunity to let loose her temper without guilt or serious consequence. But she knows better than to mention such a thing out loud and instead just nudges the conversation forward.

“What did he want?” she asks. “I’m assuming there was more to his visit than just trying to annoy you.”

Cassandra inclines her head, conceding the point. “He and Vivienne have been making arrangements to ensure that our case against Lucius is received by the general public the way we wish it to be.” There is an undercurrent of confusion to the words, like Cassandra can’t quite figure out just what those “arrangements” could be. Kyra doesn’t blame her - the inner workings of politics and public opinion have always been a bit beyond her, too - but she expects if anyone would know how to handle that sort of thing it would be Madame de Fer. And Varric, too, in his own way. “He came by to let me know that they are prepared to move as soon as I can get them the proof they need to make the case stick.”

“Hence the disaster area in here,” Kyra says, encompassing the entire collection of files scattered about with a wave of her hand. Cassandra nods once more.

“Yes. I have been sorting through Lucius’s case files in search of hard evidence of his corruption and abuse of power. I found...far more of it than I had anticipated.”

She looks so exhausted, so overwhelmed that Kyra aches to offer some sort of comfort, the urge to reach out and touch an itch beneath her skin. Rather than remain where she is, too likely by far to do something stupid and unhelpful, she hops up from her perch, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she lands and stretching her arms over her head like it was the desire to move that pulled her from the couch and not concern for her own shaky self-control. She paces over to one of the stacks of folders, peering at the seemingly random strings of numbers that are the only way to tell one file from another.

“If you’ve already found that much, why do you need more?” she asks, picking up the threads of their conversation as though nothing had happened. Which it hadn’t. “Shouldn’t that be enough?”

“I do not want to miss anything important.”

And honestly Kyra should have been able to predict that response: of course Cassandra is going to be as thorough as possible, just in case. She shakes her head, her answering sigh both exasperated and fond. “And it can’t wait until tomorrow, when you’re not dead on your feet? Or, well, where you sit.”

“If I do not have everything back before Lucius gets in he will realize that something is going on and take steps to stop us. And that is not something we can afford.”

Something about the way Cassandra says that catches Kyra’s attention - something in her tone of voice or the particular choice of phrase, Kyra isn’t certain exactly what it is that grabs at her, only that it does - and she looks up from the pile of folders to fix her friend with a suspicious stare.

“Cassandra,” she begins, though she almost doesn’t want to ask the question that has only just occurred to her. “On a scale from ‘jaywalking’ to ‘serial murder,’ just how illegal is it for you to have these here?”

Cassandra’s lips tighten, pressed together into a thin white line, and any doubts Kyra may have had about the answer to her question vanish with that single motion.

“Shit.”

“It was necessary,” Cassandra says as though that justifies the danger in which she has placed herself. And the worst part is that Kyra knows that to her it does, that there was never any doubt in Cassandra’s mind that the pursuit of justice and the protection of the innocent is worth breaking the rules, worth risking her career and her freedom and Creators only know what else. Objectively, Kyra would even agree with her. But that does nothing to loosen the cold knot of fear in her belly, the unreasonable terror that comes hand in hand with the thought of someone she cares about - someone she _loves_ \- deliberately putting themselves in harm’s way.

She links her hands together behind her back where there is a chance she can conceal the way they are shaking and takes a deep breath to steady herself. When that doesn’t work she takes two or three more before giving it up as a bad job and resigning herself to being a flustered, trembly mess for the foreseeable future. The thirty two ounces of coffee she has consumed in the last hour probably aren’t helping her here, either.

“Okay,” she says, crossing the room and dropping onto the couch beside Cassandra, too distracted to fret about their proximity or her reaction to it. She has other things to worry about just now: she will return to her regularly scheduled panic after this short break. She reaches out to pull a random file closer, careful not to let her tremors cause her to make everything even more of chaotic than it already is, and resigns herself to a sleepless night. “So. Tell me what I’m looking for and maybe between the two of us we can get through this whole mess before sunrise and keep you both employed and out of prison. Hopefully.”

Cassandra studies her for a long moment and Kyra is expecting some sort of argument - she shouldn’t get involved: it’s too dangerous, it’s too late, it’s too complicated - but instead Cassandra just heaves a tired sigh, scrubs at her eyes, and holds out a hand for the file Kyra is inspecting. Spreading it out on the table before them and keeping everything well away from her mostly-empty coffee cup, she starts to point out the various things Kyra should keep an eye out for.

“This is the initial complaint form. It should be at the front of every folder and if you see...”

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...in the interests of authorial transparency, this is very much *not* the chapter I intended to write. That one is still sitting half-completed in my notebook waiting for me to get back to it. But I figured I'd go ahead and post this one now that I have it, even if it is somewhat shorter than usual, seeing as it has been approximately forever since I updated (and also I figure we could all use a purely ridiculous chapter to cancel out some of the emotional drama that has plagued the last few chapters...).
> 
> Also, in case anyone is interested, part of the delay in this chapter was due to the fact that I spent about a week trying (and largely failing) to put together a playlist (because I'm a little obsessed with this entire AU and also someone asked) of all the songs I use as writing-inspiration for this fic. ~~It's[on 8tracks](http://8tracks.com/spectre-tabris/in-uncharted-waters).~~ Nope, fuck that, 8tracks is useless these days. You can now find the playlist on [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/spectre-tabris/playlist/5YbDnZI8GpVQQC4zHpcZk5) because I hate that site much less.

The blaring of a cell phone drags Kyra from a fitful sleep and pulls an exhausted groan from her -she is in no way ready to wake up just yet. Without bothering to open her eyes she rolls over with every intention of grabbing her phone from her bedside table and muting the infernal contraption. Or possibly just smashing the damn thing until it shuts up. Whichever. But her bed comes to an abrupt end long before she expects it to and instead of rolling onto her side she tumbles off it entirely, falling to the floor with a startled yelp. Her eyes open for the first time since she woke up and she finds herself staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling. This, she realizes, is not her bedroom. Where the _hell_...?

The night before trickles back to her in bits and pieces, brief flashes of memory all jumbled up out of order. She remembers helping Cassandra, remembers sorting through more files than she has any desire to contemplate and finishing just as the first rays of sunlight start to filter in through the living room windows. She remembers collapsing onto the couch once the last file is packed away, bleary-eyed and strung out on caffeine and exhaustion. After that there is nothing and Kyra grumbles out a string of unintelligible curses at the realization that she must have fallen asleep right there on the couch and instead of waking her up to send her home Cassandra had let her sleep. And covered her with a blanket, if the thick quilt hopelessly twisted around Kyra’s legs is anything more than a figment of her over-stressed, over-tired imagination. Damn the woman and her infuriating _(endearing)_ thoughtfulness.

“Is everything all right?”

Kyra squeaks in surprise at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, deep and distinctly male and just as distinctly _not_ Cassandra, coming from somewhere on the other side of the couch, well out of sight of where Kyra is currently sprawled out on the floor.

“What the _fuck_?” she shrieks, voice abnormally high as she scrambles to her feet, narrowly avoiding tripping over the blanket still tangled around her legs, to come face to face with the man who can only be Cassandra’s roommate, Cullen.

One look at him is enough to make her curse at the utter unfairness of the universe.

“You have got to be _fucking_ kidding me,” she grumbles, her brain-to-mouth filter shot to hell after the stress of the last few days. Cullen frowns at her, eyebrows wrinkling and somehow managing to give off the impression of a confused puppy.

“I beg your pardon?”

Kyra rolls her eyes, too tired and irritated with life for her social anxiety to even consider making an appearance. “No, seriously. I have a very important question for you. More than you can even begin to understand hinges on the answer. Does Cassandra know _anyone_ who is not infuriatingly attractive?”

Because it was bad enough when it was just Leliana, Josephine, and Vivienne. And Bull, too, in a rough and tumble kind of way. But this has officially reached the point of absurdity. For all that Kyra is incredibly gay, even she can admit that the man facing her is the closest thing to a real-life Disney prince that she has ever seen, with a strong jaw, tousled blond curls, and warm brown eyes. His t-shirt is pulled tight over an impressive set of abs and dusted with what looks like flour, a plastic spatula clutched in one hand.

And oh, look, now he’s blushing like a fool and rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck with his empty hand. Fuck’s sake. This is so not fair.

It occurs to her as he clears his throat, staring at the ground, the ceiling, anywhere that isn’t at her, that this, too, could be some sort of exhaustion-induced hallucination. It would make about as much sense as the thought of any of this actually being real. But before she has a chance to ask him his opinion on the matter - while she doubts she would be able to trust his answers, she bets his reaction would be fantastic - he clears his throat one more time and finally manages to look her in the eye.

“Yes, well, we haven’t been introduced,” he says, careful and proper and like he is trying very hard to pretend she never spoke. Kyra is in full support of this plan - she is honestly a little afraid of the answer to her question. “I’m Cullen Rutherford.”

Kyra, reminded of the fact that she is standing in the middle of a stranger’s living room in her pajamas and undoubtedly looking like a complete disaster, gives an uncomfortable laugh. “Yeah, I kinda guessed that much,” she admits. “Kyra Lavellan.”

Cullen smiles. “I had guessed that much,” he parrots and Kyra tries not to read too much into the immediate recognition there. (Does Cassandra talk about her? Is that how Cullen knows her name? What does Cassandra _say_ about her?) Instead she tucks an errant curl behind her ear and tries to look like she has any idea what the fuck is going on.

“Cassandra’s at work, I take it?” she asks and winces at the inanity of the question. Of course she is: she had been preparing to leave even as Kyra was apparently in the middle of passing out on her couch. Thankfully, Cullen just nods.

“I believe she left you a note,” he says, waving his spatula in the general direction of the coffee table. Kyra starts to lunge toward it, only to catch herself halfway into the motion and stumble as she tries to shift it into something that looks a little less love-sick and desperate. She has no idea if she succeeds: Cullen is still looking at her with that same earnest-but-awkward expression, clutching his spatula like some sort of weapon and giving her no clue as to his thought processes.

There is indeed a folded piece of paper on the coffee table, right next to the phone whose notification light is flashing wildly in an attempt to catch her attention. She tucks the phone into the front pocket of her hoodie - she’ll deal with it later - and unfolds the note.

 _Kyra_ , it says in Cassandra’s blocky handwriting,

_I apologize for disappearing on you but I thought it best to let you rest after you sacrificed your sleep to assist me. Please make yourself at home: if you are hungry, help yourself to the food in the kitchen, and if you need anything else feel free to call me._

_Thank you once again for your help tonight._

_Cassandra_

She isn’t going to get ridiculous over a hastily-scribbled message, Kyra tells herself as she finishes reading Cassandra’s words, her thumb hovering over the indecipherable scrawl of her signature. She _isn’t_ . She is a grown-ass woman: she is too old to be getting starry-eyed because her crush sent her a note, like this is elementary school and they are children passing letters in class. _Do you like me? Check one: yes or no._

Which is a blatant lie as even now she is doing exactly that. She scoffs at herself in disgust and rips her eyes away from the note. Though she takes care to refold it and tuck it into her pocket next to her phone. She’ll throw it away later, she swears.

...She might be lying again.

Once the letter is safely put away, Cullen draws her attention with another wave of his spatula.

“I’m about to make pancakes,” he says, which she supposes would account for both the utensil and the flour-like powder he is wearing all across his front. “Would you care for some?”

It takes longer than Kyra would care to admit for her to process the question, distracted as she is by more Cassandra-related matters. Would she - _what_?

“I...what time is it?” It can’t still be morning, can it? Not when they were working their way through Cassandra’s files until after seven. While she is nothing even remotely resembling well-rested, she feels like she has slept for longer than an hour or two. Surely it is well into lunchtime by now, not breakfast-time.

“It’s not quite two,” Cullen admits. At her look of confusion, he gives a sheepish shrug. “It’s never too late for pancakes.”

And okay, it’s not like he’s wrong about that. Pancakes are meant to be enjoyed at all hours. And Cassandra did say to make herself at home. Which probably includes indulging in her roommate's delicious pancakes.

On the other hand, delicious pancakes involve sharing a meal with a complete stranger and as welcoming as Cullen has been Kyra cannot quite bring herself to accept his offer. Pancakes will just have to wait until she can make them herself. At home. After getting a few more hours’ sleep.

“I...thanks, but I should probably head out,” she says, shifting uncomfortably. Cullen nods.

“Of course.” And is it her imagination or does he sound almost disappointed? No, she must be imagining it: what possible reason could he have to care that she is leaving?

Her phone buzzes in her pocket, distracting her from that line of thought, and she glares down at it as she fishes it out. When she sees the messages on the screen, the glare fades into a confused frown.

_1 Missed Call - Dorian stop changing your contact information or I swear I will end you - 1:47 pm_

_1 Voice Message - 1:48 pm_

_1 New Text Message - 1:54 pm_

She taps open the text message.

_4:00 at my office. Presumptuous bastard. I could use backup, if you’re available._

Which does not tell her much at all, except that if she wants to stop at her apartment to change into something a little more socially acceptable and still make it to Dorian’s office on time - and of course she does; while she doesn’t have any idea what is going on, there is no way she is going to ignore his request for help - then she needs to leave. Now. She hisses out a quiet curse and looks back up at Cullen, who has been watching her check her phone without any sign of impatience (for all that she doesn’t want to admit it, she is starting to see why Cassandra likes him so much).

“I’m sorry, I _really_ have to go.” As she says it she is already wrestling with the blanket in an attempt to fold it up - in a hurry or no, she doesn’t want to leave a mess behind her. Cullen chuckles and crosses over to her, tugging the blanket out of her hands and neatly folding it with a few deft movements. Kyra scowls.

“I understand,” he assures her as he sets the folded blanket on the arm of the couch. “It was wonderful to meet you.”

He sounds so earnest that Kyra feels her face flame. What has Cassandra been _telling_ him about her? (No, stop. She isn't thinking about that. She isn’t. That way lies madness.) She manages a smile as she makes her way toward the door.

“Likewise,” she mumbles - and much to her surprise she finds that it isn’t even a lie - before fleeing to the safety of the outdoors. Once the door snicks shut behind her, she glances back down at her phone to thumb open Dorian’s voicemail. Maybe that will have more answers than his text did.

“ _Well, Lavellan, you_ did _offer your assistance whenever my father inevitably chose to rear his head. Now’s your chance. We have finally agreed on a time and place and if you are not otherwise occupied, it would... oh, Maker take it. I want you there. If you can make it, I could use your support. I’ll text you with the details.”_

The message ends and Dorian’s voice fades into silence, but Kyra barely notices. She is too busy sprinting down the street in the direction of her apartment, spitting curses as she runs. She is going to _murder_ Dorian for springing this on her like this. Just as soon as she finishes eviscerating his father.


	25. Chapter 25

Freshly showered and dressed in clothes that are significantly more professional than usual (she does not know Halward Pavus and quite frankly she does not care what he thinks of her, but she’ll be damned if she gives Dorian any reason to be embarrassed by her or regret asking her for help), she makes it to the Classics wing of Skyhold’s history building just after 3:45, hoping against hope that Halward has not taken it upon himself to arrive early.

Dorian’s office is tucked away in the far corner of the department, out of the way of any foot traffic. (Kyra has never quite been able to determine if the setup was Dorian’s choice, an attempt to minimize any disruptions to his work, or that of his superiors, shoving him somewhere they wouldn’t have to deal with him: both options are equally likely.) She knocks on the door but pushes it open without waiting for an answer - she sees little reason to stand on ceremony when Dorian knows she is coming. To her relief he is alone in the room, pacing in front of the bookcases that line every spare bit of wall, his face twisted into a bitter sneer. He barely even glances up when Kyra enters and she forgoes greetings entirely in favor of grabbing him by the arm and dragging him over to his desk chair.

“Sit,” she orders as she shoves him down, manhandling him in a way that must look fairly laughable from the outside, considering just how much bigger than her he is. He waves her off with an indignant glare but she notices that he stays where she pushed him.

“I’m fine,” he mutters and Kyra rolls her eyes as she leans against the edge of Dorian’s desk, her legs bracketed by his knees.

“No, you’re a mess,” she shoots back, unfazed. “An _obvious_ mess. And somehow I doubt that that’s the impression you want to give your father when he gets here. So take a deep breath, sit up straight, and at least _look_ like you know what you’re doing, will you?”

His eyebrows dart up toward his hairline (and she can hardly blame him - she is not usually quite so commanding - but he asked for her help and so she is damn well going to help him to the best of her ability, which right now means making sure he approaches the coming conversation from a position of power, inasmuch as that’s even possible) but he obeys, pulling himself together and smoothing the signs of stress from his face. Kyra gives an approving nod and flashes a grin that is far more confident than she actually feels.

“Much better. Now you look like you’re ready to kick his ass.”

Dorian shakes his head, his lips twitching in a reluctant smile.

“You are a pain in _my_ ass, Lavellan,” he mutters and she pushes herself off of the desk to stand at his side.

“Yeah, I know. It’s one of the reasons you love me.” She squeezes his shoulder in silent support just as the office door swings open once more. _Showtime_.

Kyra wrinkles her nose in distaste at the entrance- has this asshole never heard of knocking? how uncivilized - and studies the man framed in the doorway.

Though Halward Pavus does not share the sharp features of his son, their relation is unmistakable even with just a casual glance. He has the same air of easy elegance that Dorian does, an instinctive kind of arrogance, though there is a coldness to his that is absent in Dorian and a calculation in his eyes that makes the hair on the back of Kyra’s neck stand up.

“Dorian.”

There is nothing in his voice, no warmth or emotion or any hint of fondness, and Kyra hates him for that, hates him so much she can taste it. How dare he? How dare he have someone like Dorian and not seem to even _care?_

Beneath her hand, she feels Dorian’s shoulder tense.

“Father.”

Dark eyes so unlike Dorian’s narrow at the sight of Kyra standing beside Dorian’s chair like some sort of diminutive bodyguard. “And you are?”

“Father, this is Kyra Lavellan,” Dorian says with an elaborate gesture of his hand. His tone has taken on the sharp edge of mockery and tightly-leashed anger. “Kyra, my father, Halward Pavus.”

Halward’s mouth pinches in disapproval but he does not otherwise acknowledge Kyra’s existence, and Dorian heaves an over-dramatic sigh.

“Well, here we are, gathered together like a happy family,” he sneers without even a pretense of pleasure at seeing his father. “So tell me, why did you insist on this meeting?”

Halward folds his hands together in front of himself and arches an eyebrow at Dorian as though he finds the question ridiculous. “Can’t I simply want to reconnect with my estranged son?” he asks, plaintive, and Dorian scoffs.

“Don’t even try to play the wounded party here,” he snaps. Kyra tries not to beam like a proud parent at the icy fury in his words. “You made it very clear how you felt about me, about who I am. Unless you have had some sort of drastic change of heart, I don’t see that we have much to discuss.”

“Dorian,” Halward begins, casting his eyes heavenward as though seeking divine assistance. Dorian tries to lean forward, Kyra’s firm grip on his shoulder the only thing keeping him still.

“Don’t _Dorian_ me. I wasn’t good enough for you - or for your fucking legacy. From where I’m standing, nothing has changed, nor is it likely to. So tell me, _Father_ : why are you really here?”

A flicker of a scowl crosses Halward’s face, there and gone almost too fast too see, and Kyra suspects it is the first genuine emotion he has shown this entire time. Everything else - the long-suffering looks, the subtle disapproval - has had the feel of some sort of stage show, practiced and perfected.

“I would prefer to do this without an audience,” he says with a significant look in Kyra’s direction. It takes all the self-control she can scrape together not to react, not to snap and snarl, and instead leave it to Dorian to handle. This is his show, not hers, and she needs to remember that.

As ever, he does not disappoint. He shrugs, a calculated show of indifference that dislodges Kyra’s hand from his shoulder.

“I would prefer we not do this at all,” he replies without missing a beat. “It appears that we are all making some sacrifices today.”

Kyra bites the inside of her cheek to hide her grin. She is starting to wonder why Dorian felt he needed her here at all - he certainly seems to be handling everything just fine without her assistance.

Halward scowls again, distinctly unhappy, and the sight of it makes a vindictive warmth bubble in Kyra’s chest. When it becomes clear that Dorian has no intention of budging on the issue, Halward gives a long-suffering sigh and moves on as though the entire dispute had never occurred.

“I just wanted to speak with you,” he insists and Kyra doesn’t believe a word of it. She keeps her mouth shut, though, at least for the moment. Dorian isn’t a fool and he knows his father far better than she does, after all. “I wanted...” Another sigh, this one more self-pitying than long-suffering. “You trusted me once, a trust I betrayed. I just wanted to see you again, to ask you to forgive me.”

Kyra’s brows draw together and she blinks in surprise. That was not where she expected this conversation to go. At all. Dorian, however, does not seem to share her shock; he just laughs, tired and hollow.

“ _Forgive_ you?” he spits and in the entirety of their friendship Kyra has never once heard that level of venom in his voice. “Do you even remember what you tried to do to me? You tried to _change_ me, and you think that’s just something you forgive?”

Kyra frowns: she might not be privy to the history between the two of them, but she knows Dorian, knows his reactions and his inflections almost better than she knows her own, and there is something about the way he says those words, something about the intonation or the emphasis, that sets off warning bells throughout her brain. She must make some noise of surprise or confusion, because Dorian turns to look at her fully for the first time since she walked into his office.

“I wouldn’t put on a show,” he says to her and out of the corner of her eye she sees Halward glower at the blatant disregard, at the way Dorian acts as though he isn’t even there, ignoring him in favor of speaking directly to Kyra. “I wouldn’t marry the girl and spend my entire life living a lie. _He_ didn’t approve. Thought it was selfish, I suppose. So he decided he would try to make me more _acceptable_. I found out; I left.”

And oh he sounds so angry, all fire and rage and underneath it all a soul-deep _hurt_. It takes Kyra a moment to sort through everything, to take phrases like _tried to change me_ and _make me more acceptable_ and _marry the girl_ and rearrange them into a comprehensible whole, but once she does she _seethes_.

She and Dorian have never discussed his sexuality but she is not blind and he is not as subtle as he thinks he is. She figured out long ago that he is every bit as interested in women as she is in men. She had even been working under the suspicion that many of the problems between him and his family could be traced back to that fact. But...well, it had never occurred to her that things could have gotten quite that bad. All her good intentions, all her plans to sit back and let Dorian call the shots vanish in the haze of understanding and she whirls on Halward with an audible growl.

“And what, you thought that was somehow _okay_?” she demands, voice low, dangerous. Dorian stares wide-eyed at her and even Halward looks surprised. Kyra barely notices: she is trembling with her rage. She wants to scream; she wants to curse; she wants to grab Dorian and drag him away from this entire situation. She wants to storm across the room and tear Halward Pavus apart with her bare hands.

In the end, though, she does none of those. She stays where she is, hand clenched white-knuckled around the armrest of Dorian’s chair, and sneers at Halward. “I can’t _imagine_ why he would leave after that.”

Dorian’s fingers brush against the side of her wrist, a subtle and silent “enough.” Kyra bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood but obeys, reigning in her defensive fury. This is Dorian’s fight; she can follow his lead. She _can_.

To all appearances Halward remains unaware of their wordless exchange. He just frowns at Dorian, exuding a gentle air of parental disapproval.

“Dorian,” he says, drawing the name out the same way Keeper Deshanna would Kyra’s whenever she and Rion had done something particularly stupid. The technique does not have the same effect on Dorian that it did on a young Kyra, however: instead of ducking his head and shuffling his feet he meets his father’s glare head on, brows drawing into an angry furrow.

“No, she’s right,” he snaps and Kyra struggles to keep her surprise from her face. “This isn’t something an ‘I’m sorry’ can fix, Father.”

Which, Kyra realizes, Halward has never actually said. Or implied. He hasn’t even admitted he was in the wrong, only that he wanted Dorian to speak with him again. A glance at Dorian shows that she is not the only one who has noticed that fact and the sardonic tilt to his mouth tells her all she needs to know about his thoughts on the matter.

Halward must see something similar, since he widens his eyes and drops his shoulders, the picture of earnest sincerity, and takes a single step toward the desk.

“Dorian...” he says, one last time, but Dorian just shakes his head.

“Whatever it is you hoped to find here, Father, you're not going to,” he tells Halward, his voice admirably even. “I think it is time you left.”

That stops Halward in his tracks, his calculated expression yielding to genuine surprise. He glances between Dorian and Kyra several times as though searching for a weakness, something he can exploit to regain control of the situation, but he finds nothing.

“I see.” He folds his hands together and offers Dorian a formal nod, dignified even now. “If that is truly how you feel, then I will take my leave,” he says, as though he has any choice in the matter, as though they couldn’t call campus security and have him dragged out of the building if he tried to stay.

Not that Kyra has given the idea any thought or anything.

...She’s pretty sure Dorian would disapprove, anyway.

Halward turns to leave and no sooner has the door closed behind him than Kyra rounds on Dorian, scanning for any signs of undue distress.

He seems surprisingly okay, actually, calmer than before Halward’s arrival, if still tense. He seems more settled, too, sitting back and letting Kyra scrutinize him instead of launching into nervous motion. After a moment Kyra nods, satisfied that he is not on the verge of some sort of breakdown after dealing with his asshole father, and promptly plops herself down into his lap, tossing her legs over the arm of the chair and resting her head on his shoulder. His arms come up to wrap around her waist, clutching her just this side of too tight, and they sit in a comfortable silence until even the ghost of Halward Pavus’s presence has faded from the room. The tension seeps from Dorian’s frame with each passing second and eventually his forehead comes to rest against the top of her head, his heavy exhale ruffling her curls.

“You okay?” she asks once he has relaxed, her words slightly muffled in the silk of his shirt. Dorian huffs out a hollow laugh.

“Not really,” he admits, more honest than Kyra had expected him to be.

“Want to talk about it?”

She can feel him sigh into her hair. “Not really.”

Kyra nods and doesn’t press the matter, idly kicking her legs in the air while she considers their options.

“Want to get ice cream and sit around judging everyone who walks by while I describe the many varied ways I want to tear your father apart?”

Dorian laughs again and this time there is a thread of genuine humor there that sends a jolt of satisfaction through Kyra.

“That, I think I can manage,” he replies, before shoving her unceremoniously off the chair and sending her toppling to the floor. Kyra squawks in affront and scrambles to her feet with a glare. Dorian’s expression is far more amused than Kyra feels it ought to be in the face of her righteous fury, but the fact that he is smiling at all is enough of a relief to keep her from retaliating. Instead she turns up her nose in her best show of offended dignity and stalks toward the door, confident in the knowledge that Dorian is right behind her.

She has not quite reached it when Dorian speaks again, from farther away than Kyra thought.

“And, Lavellan?” he says, voice soft. Kyra turns back around with a frown, her act falling away in favor of quiet concern. She cocks her head to the side in a silent encouragement for him to continue and does not miss the way Dorian’s hands twitch at his sides, a visible show of discomfort.

“Thank you,” he blurts out, the words coming out just a shade too fast, “for being here today.”

Kyra gives a slow smile but before she can respond to the uncharacteristic display of emotion, Dorian shakes his head and strides past her to the door. “Now if we can commence pretending this entire conversation never happened, that would be wonderful.”

Kyra laughs as she follows Dorian out, the door swinging shut behind them.

 

* * *

  

When Kyra gets home that evening, rather than turning on the television or heading to bed she throws herself onto the couch with her cell phone clutched in one hand. She has been thinking about this all afternoon, Dorian’s confrontation with his father the last push she needed to make up her mind. But coming to the decision was the easy part and now that she is faced with actually following through she finds herself once more beset by uncertainty.

Which is ridiculous, she scolds herself. She is an adult and she can damn well act like one. In this case, that means making a Creators-be-damned phone call.

The number she wants has long-since been deleted from her phone but it is not nearly so easy for people to forget such things and her fingers fly across her phone’s number pad on pure muscle memory. With one last glance at the clock to reassure herself that, taking time differences into account, it is not too late to call, Kyra presses _send_.

The other line picks up after only three rings and a familiar voice sounds in Kyra’s ear.

“Hello?”

Nostalgia floods her and she has to swallow around the sudden lump in her throat before she is able to respond. When she does her voice is shaky, weak.

“ _Aneth ara_ , Keeper. It’s Kyra.”


	26. Chapter 26

That phone call is a start, at least, the first tentative step toward reconnecting with her clan and her Keeper. Kyra knows it will be a slow process, each conversation they have rife with things left unsaid, their silences every bit as emotionally charged as their words, and half the time she isn’t even sure it’s worth the effort and strain. She has been doing just fine on her own, hasn’t she? But each time Deshanna answers her calls there is a quiet pleasure in her voice that washes away every one of Kyra’s doubts. Yes, it is worth it, worth the moments of uncertainty, the careful way she has to dance around conversational land mines - her Tevinter best friend, the human woman she loves, little things like that, topics that can wait to be discussed until things are a little less tenuous between them - in order to fumble her way toward an actual relationship with her old mentor, if one fundamentally different from the one they had before Rion died.

Kyra manages to spend three whole days without any new disasters or emergencies cropping up to distract her from this self-imposed mission. But she knows the peace can’t last long, not with Cassandra’s case gearing up for its final push, and so when Varric unceremoniously drops down into an empty seat beside Kyra that Saturday, not twenty minutes into her weekly coffee date with Cassandra, she is less surprised than she could have been.

“Varric,” Cassandra greets, sounding no more surprised than Kyra is. For a moment Kyra wonders if Cassandra had known he would show up but she quickly dismisses the idea. If nothing else, Cassandra would have warned her about it ahead of time.

“Seeker. Snapdragon.”

There is a somberness to his demeanor that Kyra is unaccustomed to, a solemnity that seems to infect Cassandra. For all that ten seconds before she had been smiling and relaxed, watching Kyra with eyes that shone in the Fade’s strange lighting, the moment she sees Varric she straightens, sitting forward in her chair and her expression smoothing from easy good humor into something serious.

“What is going on, Varric?” she demands, her voice absent any of the antagonism Kyra has come to expect from an interaction between the two of them.

“It’s done,” he says, and Cassandra’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “Story’s set to run on Monday and the Iron Lady is already managing things on her end. I’ve let Nightingale know, but she’s still on her honeymoon and probably isn’t going to be able to do much.”

Cassandra nods in understanding. “Thank you for the warning.”

Kyra expects Varric to make some sort of smart comment at that, to poke fun at the lack of venom infusing Cassandra’s words, but he just shuffles his broad shoulders in an easy shrug.

“Just doing my job, Seeker,” he replies. His mouth twists, like he isn’t certain he should say anything else. “Just...make sure you’re ready to handle the fallout, all right? We’ve done what we can to minimize it but...it could get bad.”

“I am aware,” Cassandra says. “I will manage.”

Varric laughs at that, a low, rumbling chuckle. “Somehow I don’t doubt that.” He climbs to his feet and smoothes down his vibrant red shirt, avoiding their eyes. “Be careful, would you, Seeker? I’d hate to have to find someone new to torment.”

Cassandra’s mouth quirks into a half smile, still too serious to truly count as amused. “You as well, dwarf.”

Varric grins and tosses her a lazy salute as he turns away, leaving Cassandra and Kyra alone. Out of the corner of her eye Kyra sees him head over to the front counter, presumably to chat with Cole.

Once he is a safe distance away, Cassandra slumps forward over the table with a weary sigh, forearms braced against the tabletop and head bowed. Kyra bites at her lip, unsure how to help but aching with the need to do _something_.

“You don’t look so good,” she offers, and Cassandra huffs out a weak laugh, lifting her head enough to fix Kyra with a thoroughly unimpressed look. Kyra’s hand twitches with the desire to reach out, to offer...she isn’t even certain what - comfort or sympathy or even just the promise of her presence. She is midway through the action before she even realizes she is doing it, her gloved hand halfway across the table toward Cassandra’s without any conscious direction on Kyra’s part, just an instinctive need to help. She starts to pull back, hoping that Cassandra is too distracted to notice her brief lapse in self-control (she is not in the mood to deal with the inevitable soul-crushing heartbreak should Cassandra discover her feelings; and besides, her friend has enough to deal with right now without Kyra adding her own issues to it) but before intent can turn into action Cassandra mirrors her, reaching out to take Kyra’s offered hand and twining their fingers together, clutching tight like she is worried Kyra will disappear if she should even think about letting go.

Kyra’s heart leaps into her throat and she can’t breathe for the warmth of Cassandra’s hand in hers, even through the leather of her glove. She can feel the blood suffuse her cheeks and she has to force herself to focus, to not get so distracted by Cassandra - by her nearness and her touch and her general _Cassandra-ness_ \- that she loses track of their actual conversation. No matter how flustered she may be, getting awkward and tongue-tied will help no one here.

“You really expect things to get that bad,” she manages. It is far more of a statement than a question - Cassandra’s demeanor tells Kyra more than she needs to reach that conclusion. Cassandra’s lips purse and she does not lift her gaze from their joined hands, as though captivated by the sight.

“I do,” she replies after a moment of consideration. “And for all Varric’s optimism, I suspect he does, as well. We all knew going into this that it would be far from simple.”

The thought makes Kyra wince, her fingers tightening around Cassandra’s as though she can keep her safe if she just clings hard enough.

“What will happen once Varric’s story breaks, do you think?” she presses, keeping her nerves and her bone-deep terror for Cassandra out of her voice through sheer force of will.

“There will be inquiries: an outside team will be assigned to investigate. I suspect Lucius will attempt to deflect the blame and will likely claim the evidence against him is fabricated.” Cassandra drums the fingers of her free hand against the table as she speaks, the rhythm a steady counterpoint to her words. “We found enough that it should be obvious he is lying, but there is a not-insignificant chance that he will think to accuse me instead - once Varric’s story is published, it will not be difficult for him to determine my involvement.”

At those words Kyra’s hand tightens enough around Cassandra’s that she suspects she will leave bruises behind, tiny purple-blue fingerprints along Cassandra’s skin that Kyra would feel guilty about were Cassandra not gripping back just as tightly. That...that does not sound good. At all.

“And if he does?” Kyra forces the words out through a throat that does not want to work, dry and choked with fear. Cassandra looks up to catch Kyra’s eyes just long enough for Kyra to realize that she is not the only one worried, and somehow that frightens her even more. Cassandra isn’t supposed to be afraid of anything, not assholes in bars, not crowds of strangers, and especially not her corrupt dungheap of a boss.

“The evidence against him is compelling,” Cassandra reminds her, though coming as they do so soon after this latest Cassandra-related revelation, the words are less convincing than they might otherwise have been. She loosens her death grip enough to brush her thumb across the back of Kyra’s hand in silent reassurance - which is somewhat more effective, if only because it makes it significantly harder for Kyra to concentrate on anything that isn’t the slide of Cassandra’s skin against the smooth leather of her glove, the pressure and the heat she can feel even through the layer separating them. “Whichever team is assigned to the investigation will see that.”

Kyra bites her lip on any further concerns, keeping to herself any doubts she may have about the trustworthiness of this theoretical team. For all that she does not share Cassandra’s faith in their abilities or their loyalties, she also knows when not to push the matter.

Whatever happens will happen, regardless of how much Kyra worries about it. She just hopes Cassandra will be able to weather the coming storm, will come out the other side unharmed.

_Creators, please let her get through this okay._

“Just - let me know if I can do anything to help?” she says and she hates how useless she feels, how helpless. But Cassandra just smiles, slow and fond, and squeezes her hand once.

“You already are.”

 

* * *

 

 

Over the next few weeks Kyra certainly doesn’t _feel_ like she is helping. She talks to Cassandra nearly every day, often about the case but sometimes about anything else, a desperate attempt to keep Cassandra’s mind off the stress piling up on her. With each progressive conversation Cassandra sounds more and more exhausted, worn out by the strain of the entire situation, until Kyra spends every phone call fighting the urge to show up at Cassandra’s door with a pot of tea and an illogically large pile of blankets and just sit on her until she agrees to start taking better care of herself. Hell, if she thought there was even a chance that it would work Kyra might have tried it anyway, Cassandra’s inevitable outrage be damned.

Regardless, Cassandra continues to insist that everything is under control and that she is perfectly fine even when Kyra knows that’s a lie. But Kyra has no idea how to help, no way to do anything except sit back and let Cassandra do her job, and she _hates_ it. She feels trapped and useless and without even the distraction of class or research to keep her occupied she spends more time than she should dwelling on the situation.

It takes more than two weeks for this stalemate to break, two weeks before Cassandra can say “it is nearly finished” with enough conviction for Kyra to - finally, _finally_ \- believe her.

“You’re serious,” she says into the phone, giddy and giggly with relief, and she can hear Cassandra’s tired smile in her reply.

“I am.”

Kyra laughs in delight and throws herself down onto her couch, phone tucked between her shoulder and her ear and both hands covering her face. “Oh, thank the Creators. What happens next?”

Cassandra hums softly, sounding more at peace than she has in weeks. “Merely formalities: the investigation is complete and Lucius has been removed from his command. There will be a trial, I am certain - Varric’s article and Vivienne’s politicking have ensured that the public will accept nothing less and I cannot imagine Lucius will agree to any settlement out of court - and they will need to find his replacement, but as of this afternoon my part is finished.”

“Leave the rest to the lawyers?” Kyra suggests, her voice gently teasing, and Cassandra chuckles.

“And the politicians.”

“Of course.” Kyra settles further into the couch, hooking her foot under the edge of one of her cozier blankets and pulling it up over herself. Everything seems just a little bit brighter, like a weight has been lifted off her shoulders, and she feels almost drunk on the knowledge that it is _over_ , that she can finally start to relax. She cannot imagine how relieved Cassandra must feel. “So the nightmare is ending; how’re you going to celebrate?”

Cassandra scoffs and even through the humor Kyra can hear the exhaustion there. “If you think my plans involve anything more complicated than getting a full night’s sleep and perhaps reading a book, you are sorely mistaken.”

“Naturally,” Kyra says around another easy laugh. “Should I leave you in peace, then?” She doesn’t want to: this is the closest she and Cassandra have gotten to a normal interaction in weeks and she is loathe to end it. For all that they have spoken nearly every day, she has missed Cassandra, missed the easy back and forth of conversation between them, missed the startled way Cassandra laughs, like she can’t quite believe she is doing it. She has missed seeing her, missed the meetings for class and coffee that they haven’t managed since the article came out. But she knows how hard Cassandra has been pushing herself, how worn out she must be, and if she wants to be left alone then Kyra is not going to argue. There will be plenty of time to catch up now that things are heading back toward normal - whatever “normal” even is for them.

Cassandra is silent for a moment, as though considering the question, and Kyra has to bit her lip to keep from interrupting with desperate pleas: _talk to me, please, don’t hang up_.

“I - no,” she finally says, an uncharacteristic stumble that Kyra attributes to fatigue. “No, you are fine. It is good to have a chance to talk to you properly.”

The words are slow, like Cassandra isn’t quite certain she should be saying them, and Kyra takes a second to bask in the pure delight that floods her when she hears them.

“You, too,” she manages as soon as she is capable of coherent speech once more. “Just let me know if you need to bail, okay?”

Cassandra huffs and Kyra can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “ _Kyra_.”

And if a shiver licks its way down Kyra’s spine at the way Cassandra says her name, drawing it out, exasperation coated in fondness, she takes comfort in the fact that there is no possible way for Cassandra to know.

“Yeah, got it.” She casts her mind around for something to talk about that does not involve either Cassandra’s work or her own sudden inability to think straight. “So does this mean you’ll be back in class on Saturday? Because don’t get me wrong, Bull is great, but it’s not the same without you.”

“I’m surprised you went,” Cassandra remarks and while she says “surprised” Kyra can hear the underlying “proud.” She refuses to admit to the bubble of contentment she feels at that and instead gives an uncomfortable shrug before remembering that Cassandra can’t actually see her.

“Couldn’t just abandon Sera and Bull,” she mutters instead, hiding her flushed face in her blanket. Honestly, she is just as surprised as Cassandra is - she had considered skipping once she found out Cassandra would not be there, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it. It was habit at this point and not going just felt wrong. “They’re desolate enough with you gone - I worried they wouldn’t survive missing me, too.”

“Of course,” Cassandra drawls, deadpan and unconvinced, and Kyra wonders what it says about her that this is the kind of woman she fell in love with. Nothing flattering, she is certain. “In that case, you will be grateful to know that I have every intention of being there next weekend.”

“Oh, good,” Kyra says, trying desperately to downplay the relief she feels at the information. “Because I think Bull is starting to lose it. Has he told you what he has been doing to me?”

“I haven’t spoken to Bull in weeks.”

And oh, isn’t that an interesting bit of knowledge. And by “interesting” Kyra means “nearly makes her choke on air,” of course. Cassandra and Bull are as much friends as they are co-instructors: Kyra figured that out within the first few classes she attended. And yet Cassandra hasn’t talked to him, though she has spent upwards of eight hours on the phone with Kyra over the course of the last fourteen days. That is...something she is going to have to think about later. Just not now: she cannot afford that kind of distraction right at the moment.

“You might have the right idea there,” she says instead, tipping her head back against the arm of the couch and closing her eyes as she prepares her story. “So first of all, did you realize that, other than Sera and Dagna, I’ve been attending longer than anyone else at this point? Because I hadn’t. Bull apparently did, though, and so when he decided he needed someone to help him with demonstrations in your absence, who do you think he picked?”

There is a bubble of startled laughter from the other line and Kyra grins up at her ceiling in silent triumph. “It was _awful_ , Cass, you have no idea. You have _got_ to save me from him.”

She doesn’t even realize what she has said until she hears Cassandra’s sharp intake of breath. Kyra casts her mind back over her last few sentences and curses.

“Shit. Sorry. _Cassandra_. I didn’t mean -” She scrambles to apologize, explain, swear she won’t do it again, but Cassandra cuts her off.

“It’s fine,” she says, still sounding a little more startled than Kyra thinks the situation truly warrants. If she is this surprised by a minor slip of the tongue (that Kyra is in no way panicking about, she swears), then Kyra really doesn’t want to see Cassandra’s reaction to some of the _other_ things she doesn’t say. “I...do not mind.”

Kyra lets out a sigh of relief as she turns Cassandra’s words over in her head. “Wait. Just to clarify. ‘I don’t mind’ meaning ‘I’ll overlook it this once but call me that again and they will never find your body,’ or ‘I don’t mind’ meaning ‘that is a form of address that I am comfortable with you using’? Because those are two very different things.”

There is a huff of laughter from Cassandra, awkward but not upset. “The latter,” she replies in the tone of one admitting a great weakness, and Kyra is so stunned it takes her a moment to remember how to use words.

“I - oh,” she says, because she is a suave and eloquent individual. “Uh. Thanks?”

There is a moment of silence as they both try to figure out how to follow that before Kyra just gives a mental “fuck it” and picks up right where she left off as though there had been no interruption to her tale.

“So anyway. Bull.”

She launches back into her story, with Cassandra asking questions and adding commentary as necessary, and the tension in the air fades away in favor of their usual easy camaraderie.


	27. Chapter 27

That phone call is the last time Kyra truly speaks with Cassandra for almost a week. Her concerned texts receive only the briefest, most perfunctory of replies and any attempt to elicit a more detailed response is summarily ignored. The sudden radio silence terrifies her - of course it does, especially coming as it does right on the heels of their last conversation - but it also _infuriates_ her. Cassandra doesn’t get to do this, doesn’t get to promise her the danger is over and then immediately drop off the face of the earth. Not when she knows exactly how worried Kyra has been for her throughout this entire debacle: from the beginning, Kyra has made no secret of that. But at this point there is little she can do save wait for Saturday, when she will have a chance to confront Cassandra about it face to face. She had assured Kyra she would be there this week and Kyra clings to that fact through the string of dismissive text messages. If she can just make it through to the weekend, she will see Cassandra and will be able to demand some sort of explanation. She can manage that much; she knows she can.

Except then Saturday evening finally rolls around and when Kyra shows up at the self defense class all set to drag Cassandra out to the hall to hash things out then and there, she is greeted by the Iron Bull’s pitying look and no Cassandra to be found.

“She’s not coming, boss,” Bull says in response to the (more desperate than she cares to admit) way Kyra searches the room, her eyes scanning every darkened corner, every flickering shadow as though she expects Cassandra to jump out at her. His gruff voice is gentle and knowing enough that Kyra suspects her feelings for their mutual friend are not quite the secret she had hoped they were. Which worries her right up until Bull’s words finally register and suddenly she has more important things to concern herself with.

“Of course she isn’t.” Part of her wants to scream, wants to rant and rage about how it isn’t _fair_ , Cassandra _said_ she would be here and now she isn’t, while another part is busy coming up with more and more horrible explanations for her absence and between the two Kyra just feels tired. She is tired and she is angry and she is worried and she does not know how to handle any of it.

She scrubs her hands over her face, trying to collect her thoughts before she looks back to Bull. “Have you heard from her recently?”

She isn’t certain what answer she is hoping for here - if he says no then she still has no idea what is going on with Cassandra, but if he says yes that means Cassandra has been ignoring her _specifically_ rather than people in general and Kyra really doesn’t want to think about why that could be.

Bull shakes his head and the mingled relief-concern-anger she feels at that does nothing to clear up the matter. “Not really. She called this morning to tell me she wasn’t gonna make it, but that’s it. Wouldn’t tell me why. Figure you’d know more than I do.”

When Kyra frowns at him, a silent request for clarification - she hadn’t even known Cassandra wasn’t coming today, why would she know anything else? - Bull just rolls his eye.

“Never mind.”

Kyra’s frown deepens but she doesn’t press the matter, leaving Bull in peace to prepare for his class.

She ends up staying - she is already there and she would feel guilty abandoning Bull just because she is mad at Cassandra and wants to go home where she can fume in peace. So she sticks around, lets Bull drag her into demonstrations (despite her complaints to Cassandra, she doesn’t actually mind it: Bull is good at making her feel comfortable and making her forget she is being watched by a sizable group of people), but the moment it ends she rushes out the door, dodging Bull’s worried looks and Sera’s pointed questions.

She makes it halfway home with every intention of digging out the pint of rocky road ice cream she has stashed in the back of her freezer and spending the evening sitting on her couch and nursing her anger before she stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk. Her hands ball into fists at her side and she swears - loudly, creatively, and earning her a horrified glare from a middle-aged dwarven woman passing beside her.

“Oh, _fuck this_ ,” she spits, directing the words at the universe in general. This is a terrible idea and she is certain it will backfire on her horribly, but she _does not care_. She does an abrupt about-face, her movements made sharp with rage, and stalks off in the opposite direction of her apartment. She is _done_ being passive.

It takes her twenty minutes to make it to her destination and by the time she arrives her tightly coiled fury has been pushed aside by anxiety. She was right, this is a terrible idea; what the fuck was she thinking? She should turn right back around and go home, like she had planned.

But she swallows her fear - she has made it this far, she will see this through if it kills her - and storms up the front steps to rap her knuckles against the door.

It takes almost no time at all for the door to swing open and for a long moment Cullen just stares at her, brown eyes wide with shock. Eventually, though, he recovers himself enough to speak.

“Miss Lavellan.”

Kyra doesn’t even bother to return the greeting; she just crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him. (She will likely feel guilty later for her complete lack of manners, but right now she really can’t be bothered.)

“Is Cassandra home?” she demands instead. Cullen raises an eyebrow and steps back, gesturing her inside with a heartfelt, if quiet, “Thank the Maker. Maybe you’ll be able to talk some sense into her.”

Kyra frowns - what is he talking about? - but any thoughts she may have had on the matter - any thoughts at all that are not directly related to her reason for being here - vanish at the sight that meets her as she enters the house.

Cassandra sits in the center of the couch, head bowed over a slim packet of papers resting on the coffee table. She must not have heard Cullen’s greeting, for when she glances over toward the door her mouth falls open at the sight of Kyra standing beside him and she jolts to her feet, narrowly avoiding tripping over the coffee table in her haste.

“Kyra,” she breathes, like the name has been punched out of her. At Kyra’s side she hears Cullen shuffle awkwardly.

“Right. I’ll just...be somewhere else for a while.” The front door squeaks on its hinges as he escapes into the night, leaving Kyra and Cassandra alone in the house.

“What the _fuck_ , Cassandra?” Kyra snaps as soon as the door has slammed shut behind Cullen, and Cassandra’s eyes fly wide at the fury in her voice. She takes a step forward, her arm outstretched, but Kyra steps away, maintaining the careful distance between them. She needs Cassandra not to be close, not right now. She needs space, needs to be able to think without having to deal with Cassandra standing _right there_.

“Don’t,” she says and Cassandra freezes in place. “Just...just don’t, please. I can’t - _fuck_. Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? You said it was over, that I could relax and then you just fucking vanish and you don’t answer your phone and your texts may as well have been written by a machine and no one has heard from you and -”

Tears sting her eyes and oh, no, she can’t cry. Not now. She is shaking with emotion and for all that she wants to claim it is just anger she knows that is a lie. It is anger, yes, but it is also the culmination of an entire week’s worth of fear and worry and anxiety forcing its way through any outlet it can find. She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a deep breath to steady herself, then another when the first proves useless.

“Fuck,” she breathes as her eyes flutter open. Cassandra looks genuinely distressed, eyes wide and lips parted as she stares at Kyra.

“I’m sorry,” she says before Kyra has a chance to continue her tirade. It stops Kyra short: that is not the kind of response she had been expecting. She had expected defensiveness, protestations that Cassandra had been doing her job, had been busy, didn’t have time to cater to Kyra’s anxieties (which is stupid and she knows it’s stupid but fear is neither logical nor reasonable), not a blanket apology when Kyra has barely even started to air her grievances. She is taken aback enough that this time when Cassandra tries to close the distance between them Kyra lets her, lets her reach out to rest a warm hand on Kyra’s shoulder, and feels the last vestiges of her ire crumble to dust. With a choked-off sob she throws caution and sensibility out the window and leans forward to wrap her arms around Cassandra’s waist in a fierce hug, face buried in the crook of Cassandra’s neck. Cassandra stiffens in shock and for a moment Kyra fears she has made a terrible mistake, but before she can pull away Cassandra starts to relax, her arms wrapping around Kyra’s back to return the hug.

Kyra gives herself a few seconds to savor the sensation, the weight of Cassandra’s hand on her spine, the way they fit together like they were always meant to be here. But Cassandra is warm against her and she smells divine and Kyra can feel her mouth pressed against her temple in what is far too close to a kiss for Kyra’s peace of mind and she has to pull away before she forgets why she came here in the first place and does something monumentally stupid.

She draws back, clearing her throat and scrubbing the back of her hand across her eyes to wipe away any trace of lingering tears.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, though whether she is apologizing for the hug, the emotional outburst, or showing up unannounced at Cassandra’s doorstep she is not certain. Maybe all of them at once.

“Are you all right?” Cassandra asks and for all that her concern is genuine there is an unfamiliar hesitance there that Kyra cannot explain. She is starting to think that maybe she shouldn’t have come at all.

“I’m fine,” she says, though they both know it’s a lie. “I just - what the hell is going on, Cass? You said this was over.” She has abandoned the angry demand from earlier and instead she just sounds tired. Which is...not an inaccurate assessment. She wants this conversation over, wants things to go back to the way they were. She hopes that is even possible.

Cassandra looks uncomfortable, unwilling or unable to meet Kyra’s eyes, her mouth twisted into a frown.

“The investigation was,” she insists and Kyra is inclined to believe her - Cassandra isn’t one to lie. Especially not to a friend and regardless of everything else that has happened Kyra is going to continue to consider herself one of Cassandra’s friends up until the moment Cassandra herself tells her otherwise.

Besides, if Cassandra did not still count Kyra as a friend then there is no way they would even be having this conversation. She would have kicked Kyra out ages ago, not apologized for avoiding her for a week and hugged her and okay, so it’s possible Kyra is a little confused on where they stand right now. An explanation would help with that, she suspects.

Cassandra sighs, a frustrated huff that Kyra sympathizes with, and casts a glance over to the papers still sitting on the coffee table as though they hold all the answers.

“Lucius was arrested on Monday morning,” she says and Kyra nods. This is not news to her: Cassandra had said as much the last time they spoke. “But his replacement has not been named and the department was unprepared for the amount of work that not having a Chief of Police would create. In the absence of anyone more qualified, many of his responsibilities have fallen to me and between that, the backlash from Varric’s article, and my own duties I have been...somewhat overwhelmed. It was not my intention to worry you.”

It is Kyra’s turn to sigh, exhausted and drained. She could press the issue, she knows, explain exactly how not okay she is with the way things have been, but she doesn’t see how that would accomplish anything. She has made her point; Cassandra knows where she stands. And it’s not like she doesn’t have a habit of doing the same damn thing when she is emotionally distraught. She can leave it be. Mostly.

“Just...try not to do it again?” she asks and Cassandra gives a humorless chuckle.

“I will do my best,” she promises. She still seems hesitant, however, thoughtful and too quiet and Kyra finds herself watching her nervously, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“What is it?”

“I mentioned that there were some formalities yet to take care of,” Cassandra begins and Kyra nods again, though it was not a question. An irritated frown flits across Cassandra’s face as she struggles to find the right words. “They offered me a promotion,” she says in a tone more suited to funeral announcements than career advancement. Kyra cocks her head to the side, her eyes narrowed and brows furrowed in confusion.

“Congratulations?” she offers, tentative. That sounds like good news, so why does Cassandra seem so flustered by it? Kyra is missing something here, some piece of information that will force everything else to make sense. “Why don’t you sound pleased by that?”

“It would involve more responsibilities, but also a substantial pay raise and more power to actually change things.”

That explanation explains exactly nothing and dread curls in Kyra’s gut. Cassandra doesn’t talk around subjects: she is blunt and forthright, approaching even difficult topics head-on. The fact that she is avoiding an answer like this makes Kyra suspect that she is very much not going to like where this conversation is headed.

“Cass...” she trails off, not quite certain what she wants to say, and Cassandra sighs.

“It is in Val Royeaux.”

Oh. _Oh_.

Kyra can’t breathe. Her head spins and her throat closes and _oh_ , that explains why Cassandra is so conflicted. Val Royeaux.

Val _fucking_ Royeaux.

Accepting the promotion means Cassandra would have to move halfway across the country.

Shit.

Creators, Kyra doesn’t want her to leave. She feels like they just met and like they’ve known each other forever all at the same time and she cannot think of anything she wants less than to lose that. She is - _fuck_ , there is still so much for them to do.

And yes, they have phones and cars and it’s not like Cassandra moving away from Skyhold would mean Kyra would never speak to her again. It just wouldn’t be the same.

But this is a huge opportunity for Cassandra. This is a chance for her to change things the way Kyra knows she has always wanted. What kind of friend would she be if she stands in the way of that just because she is stupidly, hopelessly in love? She can’t do that to her. She won’t.

Cassandra watches her with an expression Kyra can’t interpret and she realizes she has been silent for too long. She needs to respond to Cassandra’s announcement. Somehow.

She swallows back all the words she wants to say, the pleading and the protesting and the begging her to stay, and reaches into the depths of herself for the words she _needs_ to say, instead.

“That’s fantastic,” she croaks, voice dry, brittle. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears, loud and fast and painful, an undercurrent of preemptive grief. Cassandra’s eyes widen and she looks confused, almost hurt, as she studies Kyra with an unsettling intensity. She is entirely focused on Kyra, and all Kyra can do in return is pray that Cassandra doesn’t try to ask any uncomfortable questions right now - between the weight of her eyes and the despair she is still struggling to control she does not think she could manage a believable lie. As the silence lengthens, Cassandra’s gaze grows sharp and Kyra can see her clever mind racing behind those hazel eyes. She looks at her like Kyra’s face holds the answers to every question she has never thought to ask, all written in a foreign language she is struggling to decode. Kyra feels flayed open, pulled apart with her every secret dragged out into the light, and she is terrified of what Cassandra can see in her right now, what conclusions she is reaching.

“You’re not going to ask me to stay.” Cassandra speaks the words slowly, carefully, as though testing the way they fit in her mouth, her eyes dark and heavy and Kyra cannot bring herself to look away.

“I...” What is Kyra supposed to say to that? “It’s a huge opportunity,” she manages through a throat that does not want to work. “I can’t - why would I ask you to give that up?” Every word forced out of her is a knife to her gut, sharp and painful, and she fights to keep her expression from betraying her. Oh, Creators, she can’t do this.

From the look on Cassandra’s face, Kyra may as well have reared back and punched her. The calculation from before has been wiped away, replaced with sheer, unadulterated shock. Fear pins Kyra in place while her mind races; she cannot force herself to move, held in stasis as she waits for an explanation for that look, an explanation she is not certain she wants to hear. When Cassandra does speak, her words are hesitant, like she had been reading from a familiar script but then someone went in and changed all the lines on her.

“Because you’re in love with me.”

Kyra’s entire mind blanks out. Her heart stops and her stomach turns to lead and plummets to the ground at her feet.

Oh, no. Nonononono. This isn’t - She can’t - She can’t form a coherent thought, her brain refusing to grasp the situation, and for far too long she stares at Cassandra in horrified silence.

“I - How long have you known?” It doesn’t even occur to her to deny it, and she isn’t certain she could have if she tried. Her voice sounds like she has swallowed sandpaper, rough and ragged, and she can’t do this - she can’t do this - _she can’t do this_.

“I didn’t.” Cassandra’s voice is still so neutral, no hint of any emotion beyond surprise, that Kyra wants to vomit. This is not how this meeting was supposed to go. This is not how this _revelation_ was supposed to go (not that this revelation was supposed to happen at all). “But the look on your face...I would like to think that I am not entirely blind, and I have seen enough romance movies to know what heartbreak looks like.”

And fuck, no, this is too much; Kyra can’t breathe, can’t think. She can’t stay here, can’t have this discussion. Not now. Maybe not ever. She _can’t_.

“I’m sorry.” She is speaking too fast, the words tumbling out of her mouth with no real input from her brain. “I am _so_ sorry. I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t...I’m sorry.”

She can’t bring herself to look at Cassandra’s expression as she turns around and runs for the door.

She doesn’t look back.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we reach the final chapter. Thank you to all of you who have stuck with me this long - you've all been awesome and I couldn't ask for better readers. Your comments make my day and I am thrilled to know that other people have enjoyed this story as much as I have. 
> 
> That being said, I'm not quite ready to give up on these guys just yet. Any further stories I write (either in the hit me double hard universe or canon) will get posted to both AO3 and [my tumblr](http://spectre-tabris.tumblr.com) (which, unrelated but you should all come by and say hi or pester me for my Discord chat or whatever - I love hearing from you guys), for anyone interested in them.
> 
> Also, because I don't think I've mentioned this before (which is quite shameful of me, really) pluviance has done some _amazing_ fanart for [this](http://pluviance.tumblr.com/post/148420951071/and-the-wait-is-over-here-you-go) [fic](http://pluviance.tumblr.com/post/150520818399/not-exactly-what-you-wanted-but-its-close) (and for one of the [side stories](http://pluviance.tumblr.com/post/149671589642/a-super-serious-illustration-for-spectre-tabriss)) that you should all go ooh and ahh over because they're honestly fantastic.
> 
> UPDATE: [@merrigold](http://merrigold.tumblr.com) also drew some super adorable fanart of these two dorks that you should all go check out [HERE](http://merrigold.tumblr.com/post/152804248319/so-everyone-should-go-and-read-this-fanfic-by)!
> 
> I think I have rambled on at you long enough now. Onto the actual chapter!

It takes three days for Dorian to burst through her front door, bag of takeout in hand and worried frown on his face. Kyra glances up from her spot on the couch, ensconced in a fluffy blanket with _Die Hard_ playing on the TV, to send him an irritated glare.

“Most people knock, you know,” she points out, more for show than anything else. It is a losing battle and she knows it. “I gave you that key for emergencies.”

“I assure you, Lavellan,” Dorian says, breezing past her into the kitchen where Kyra can hear the rustling of plastic as he unloads the food onto the counter, “this counts as an emergency.” More noises drift out to Kyra as Dorian putters around her kitchen, entirely at home, and she mutes the television so that she can hear his words over the noise. “No one has heard from you in three days and you aren’t answering your phone.”

Kyra thinks of her cell phone, sitting on her bedside table with the battery long-since drained, and flushes with guilt. It is possible that she has not been handling this situation very well at all.

In her defense, she hadn’t meant to shut Dorian out so thoroughly. She had just needed time to process, to work through the mess of emotions roiling in her gut ever since the confrontation with Cassandra and until she had done that the idea of interacting with anyone, even Dorian, was too much for her to deal with.

It still is, if she is honest. She has been doing fairly well at pretending none of it ever happened, at watching violent, romance-less movies and pointedly Not Thinking About It, but with Dorian here, talking about the last few days as though they were actually a thing that happened and not some horrible figment of Kyra’s imagination, it is so much harder.

Before she can say anything - apologize or attempt to defend herself or whatever it is she would have said - Dorian reappears out of the kitchen carrying two plates of what smells like the shawarma wraps from Kyra’s favorite little hole in the wall restaurant and she has to suppress a wince. That restaurant is fifteen minutes in the wrong direction from Dorian’s house and for him to have gone so far out of his way in order to pick it up for her (and she hadn’t even realized they _did_ takeout, anyway) means it is either an apology or a bribe. Neither of those options fills Kyra with a sense of comfort and security.

Either Dorian is oblivious to her sudden nervous tension or, more likely, he chooses to ignore it, instead settling onto the couch beside her and handing her one of the plates without a word. She raises an eyebrow at the almost artistic arrangement of wrap and jasmine rice.

“You didn’t have to move it onto plates,” she points out. “We could have just eaten it out of the containers.”

Dorian glares at her as though she as just suggested something obscene. “Bite your tongue, you heathen.”

Even her stirrings of anxiety ( _please don’t make me talk about it please don’t ask about it please don’t say anything even remotely related to the topic please don’t..._ ) can’t stop her stomach from rumbling at the familiar scent and Dorian regards her with an amused expression.

“Do I want to know when you last ate?” he asks and Kyra shrugs. She isn’t sure, not exactly, but it hasn’t been nearly long enough to warrant that concerned tone he is trying to hide. Sometime that morning, at least. Honestly, she has been taking better care of herself the last few days than she normally does - even just minor things like taking a shower or cooking food have helped keep her distracted and keep her mind off of things she would rather not dwell on. And she would tell him as much if she weren’t so busy shoveling food into her mouth like she is afraid it would disappear on her. Dorian sighs, eating his own meal with far more grace than Kyra is managing.

For a brief, blissful moment Kyra is able to focus on enjoying her food and _not_ on why Dorian might have come over while Dorian shoots her concerned glances (which would probably have been subtle if he had even a passing familiarity with the concept) before he finally breaks the semi-companionable silence.

“Are you going to talk about it?”

Kyra freezes with her wrap halfway to her mouth, barely choking down the last of her previous bite. Her thoughts screech to a halt and she can feel her heart racing, far too fast to be safe. She hadn’t - _fuck_ , she hadn’t expected Dorian to just come right out and ask like that, though in retrospect she probably should have.

“Talk about what?” she hedges, as though there is any doubt as to what Dorian means. But the question buys her time to try to force her stalled brain to start working again, to stomp down on the rising tide of panic building in her chest.

Apparently it was bribery food, after all. Fuck.

“About whatever it was Cassandra did to make you spend the last few days hiding in your apartment.” There is neither judgement nor pressure in Dorian’s tone and Kyra loves him a little for that. Still, though. She has to ask.

“How did you -”

Dorian cuts her off, frowning a her an a way that tells Kyra without words that she is not fooling anyone and he would appreciate it if she would cease treating him like an idiot. “Kyra, my dear, as far as I am aware there are only two people who have this much of an effect on you, and in this instance I am relatively certain that I had no part in it. Which leaves Cassandra.”

Kyra subsides with a quiet grumble, unable to deny the validity of his argument. But that just means she is forced to confront his original question and she cannot think of a single thing she wants to do less at the moment. She doesn’t want to talk about what happened with Cassandra; she doesn’t even want to _think_ about what happened with Cassandra. She just isn’t certain that ignoring it is going to be an option.

“How annoying are you going to be if I say no?” she asks and there is the flash of concern in Dorian’s eyes, there and gone in an instant. Instead of acting on it, he just gasps in mock offense, hand pressed over his heart.

“You wound me, Lavellan. As though I could ever be anything less than marvelous company.”

Kyra tries to glare, she really does, but he looks so ridiculous, so overdramatic that she cannot help the slight smile that tugs at her lips. She presses them together in an attempt to conceal it but Dorian catches her anyway, the false affront fading into a subtle triumph, and she realizes that that had been his intent all along, the bastard. She contemplates the merits of throwing something at him but unfortunately the only throwable thing she has at hand is her wrap and she would never waste delicious food like that. No matter how much he deserves it.

“You know I won’t force you to tell me anything,” he says, picking up the thread of their conversation as though nothing had happened, though there is a gentleness to his tone that had not been there before. Kyra wonders how terrified she must have looked for him to feel the need to treat her with such kid gloves. She can’t decide if she is grateful for the gesture or if she wants to rail against such treatment: she is neither a child nor fragile, and Dorian ought to know that by now.

Though such an argument might be more convincing if she hadn’t almost had a panic attack at even the thought of telling Dorian what had happened between her and Cassandra. And even with all of Dorian’s efforts there is still a part of Kyra telling her to run, to shut down this entire topic for good. It takes conscious effort to keep her breathing even and she has to set her plate down on the table lest it spill from her trembling hands.

Dorian says he won’t push and Kyra trusts him on that, but she also knows him well enough to read between the lines. He won’t push her to talk about it, no, but he clearly thinks she should. She wishes she could say that she agrees.

Her entire body itches with anxiety and it drives her to her feet, unable to sit still. She scrubs a hand through her hair as she starts to pace around the living room, trying to wrangle her thoughts into something resembling sense.

“It’s...complicated,” she admits, though even as she says it she isn’t certain that it’s the truth.

“I don’t have anywhere else to be tonight.”

Kyra chews on her lower lip as she thinks, searches for an explanation that she has a chance of actually making it through without breaking down. This was much easier to deal with when she was pretending none of it had happened.

She is saved from having to come up with some sort of answer by the sound of her doorbell echoing throughout her apartment. For a brief moment she is thankful for whoever has interrupted their little tete-a-tete, right up until reality reasserts itself and she remembers that there are only two people who visit her on even a semi-regular basis and one of them is sitting right next to her.

All the panic she has been fighting off floods her in the span of a heartbeat and she looks wildly to Dorian for help. She can’t - how is she supposed to handle this right now?

“Are you going to answer it?” Dorian asks and he could be commenting on the weather for all the emotion in his voice. Kyra doesn’t know if he hasn’t realized who it has to be at the door or if he has and is trying to stay calm in an attempt to help her relax, but if it’s the latter then it is decidedly unsuccessful. She shakes her head, unable to force her throat to cooperate enough to form any actual words, and Dorian sets his plate to the side in order to rise to his feet. He is halfway to the door before Kyra can even process the movement and by the time she pulls herself together enough to hiss out a “ _wait_ ,” he has already pulled the door open.

Kyra is at the wrong angle to see her visitor’s face but she can make out the cadences of a familiar voice, too muffled by the blood pounding in Kyra’s ears for her to understand the individual words. Anxiety and terror war for dominance within her and she shrinks back toward the wall, as far out of sight of the door as possible.

From her vantage point Kyra can see little more than Dorian’s back where he has positioned himself to best block the view into the apartment from the outside. There are a few long, gut-wrenching moments of indistinct conversation interspersed with Dorian’s sharp, angry gestures and just as Kyra is starting to hope that maybe she is going to get out of this, maybe she won’t have to deal with this today (or ever), the fight drains out of Dorian and he steps to one side.

Panic-induced nausea wells in Kyra’s throat as Cassandra steps across the threshold. She barely notices the warning look that Dorian sends Cassandra or the apologetic one directed at her, her attention fixed on where Cassandra stands in the middle of her living room.

Dorian crosses the room in a few long strides and reaches out to put his hands on Kyra’s shoulders. The touch shocks her out of her stupor just enough that she catches his quiet, “Trust me.” Then he presses a kiss to her forehead and abandons her, the slam of the door behind him ringing in her ears like a death knell. A part of her mourns his departure: maybe if he had stayed he could have acted as a buffer between her and Cassandra, could have kept Kyra from doing anything she might regret.

Then again, maybe Kyra would rather not have an audience for the conversation to come.

She and Cassandra stare at each other for nearly a minute, the air between them thick with tension, with words both said and unsaid. Cassandra opens and closes her mouth several times but says nothing, looking about as uncomfortable as Kyra feels and the awkwardness cuts Kyra to the core. This is not how things are supposed to be between them; there shouldn’t be uncomfortable pauses or uncertain silences. Things had always been so easy, a back and forth that was so natural it felt almost like instinct, and then Kyra had to go and ruin it with her stupid fucking feelings.

She wants to say something, wants to shatter this silence and try to set things right, but she is paralyzed with no idea where to even start. In the end, that task falls to Cassandra.

“I wanted to speak with you,” she says, words stilted, unsure and completely unlike Cassandra’s usual brusque confidence. “About the other night.”

Kyra winces, the acknowledgement - however vague - of what happened enough to shake the numbness from her tongue.

“Cassandra...”

The name draws a brief unhappy frown from her friend, a flash of expression gone so quickly that Kyra is not certain it was even there at all. She ignores it, at least for now, in favor of doing her level best to derail this entire conversation as quickly as possible.

“Do we really have to talk about it?” she asks and if there is a note of shameless pleading in her voice, she thinks it is justified. But once she starts speaking she can’t seem to stop, the words tumbling out of her like a flood, each one more desperate than the last. “I can’t - I don’t know that there is anything to say. Except I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t mean to, and I didn’t intend to make you uncomfortable, and _Creators_ , please don’t hate me, not for this.”

“Kyra,” Cassandra tries to interrupt, but Kyra babbles right over whatever it is she would have said.

“I mean, you’d be totally justified if you did and I promise I wouldn’t blame you for it because I know I fucked up but I couldn’t help it -”

“Kyra.”

“-and I tried, I swear I tried to stop it but I _couldn’t_ and -”

“ _Kyra_.”

There is enough force in Cassandra’s voice this time to shut Kyra up mid-sentence, her jaw snapping shut with a sharp clack of her teeth. She stares wide-eyed at Cassandra, who is watching her in turn, a gentle sort of exasperation in her eyes that Kyra does not quite understand.

“I turned down the promotion.”

For a moment, Kyra is certain she misheard. That isn’t - _that_ is what Cassandra wanted to talk about? The promotion? Not the...not the love thing? She feels like there is an audible screech as she scrambles to shift her train of thought - less successfully than she would have preferred. Even once she does accept the fact that yes, she heard Cassandra correctly, she still can’t quite wrap her head around it.

“But...why?”

There is a discomfort in the line of Cassandra’s shoulders that Kyra has never seen before, an uneasiness in her stance. And she thinks Cassandra has moved closer than she was a moment ago, though Kyra has been so caught up in her own thoughts that she cannot be certain. She can’t be certain of much of anything at the moment.

She knows she is missing something, that she should be paying more attention to their conversation but her entire focus is stuck on what Cassandra just said (and on not having a panic attack over the fact that Cassandra _knows_ , oh fuck Cassandra knows what is Kyra supposed to do about that?).

“I realized that the reasons to stay outweighed the reasons to leave.”

“But I thought - isn’t it what you wanted?”

She hates how plaintive she sounds but she can’t help it - Cassandra isn’t making any _sense_ . And she is definitely closer than she was before but Kyra cannot for the life of her remember seeing her move. She was just by the door and then she was halfway across the room and why can’t Kyra _focus?_

Cassandra bites her lip before she answers, an uncharacteristic show of nerves, and Kyra is momentarily distracted by the flash of white teeth against the pink of her mouth.

“It would have taken me off of cases and put me behind a desk,” Cassandra says, but there is a wealth of emotion in her eyes where they are locked on Kyra’s that Kyra does not trust herself enough to even try to decipher. “I would have hated it. And there were...other considerations.” She speaks slowly, haltingly, like she is choosing her words with great care.

She is close now, so close that if she wanted Kyra could reach out and touch, wrap her hands around Cassandra’s neck and pull her in and - no, what is she even thinking? She is panicking, her heart racing and lungs heaving and for once it has nothing to do with Cassandra standing so near. Because she knows - she _knows_ \- that Cassandra is not saying what Kyra’s love-addled mind _thinks_ she is saying. She shrinks back, afraid of what might happen if she allows herself to stay so near Cassandra, afraid of her own wavering self-control, but there is nowhere for her to go, her back already against the wall.

“Saturday night,” Cassandra says and with those two words she destroys Kyra’s ability to form any kind of coherent thought. She can’t breathe, can’t speak, can’t see anything except Cassandra’s eyes so fucking close to her own. “You left before I had a chance to respond.”

Of course she did. It isn’t like Cassandra was going to say anything Kyra wanted to hear. Of course Kyra ran, desperate to avoid the hurt and heartbreak that even a gentle letdown would have engendered. But her tongue is heavy in her too-dry mouth and she does not say any of that out loud.

“You seemed pretty freaked out,” she manages to croak. Cassandra arches an eyebrow and a flush rises in Kyra’s cheeks - it is possible Cassandra was not the only one who was freaked out that night.

“I was shocked, not displeased,” Cassandra clarifies. Kyra freezes, the only movement in her entire body the shallow rise and fall of her chest. She was...what?

“What?”

She almost doesn’t recognize her own voice, ragged and raw. There is a pause as Cassandra’s hands come up to Kyra’s hips, her palms curving around the sharp jut of Kyra’s hipbones in a gesture so instinctive, so thoughtless, that Kyra isn’t even certain Cassandra realizes she has done it. Her heart is in her throat and she feels her entire body trembling in a heady blend of terror and hope and desire. How is Kyra supposed to think when she can feel the heat from Cassandra’s hands even through the denim of her jeans?

“If you had stayed,” Cassandra begins, “I would have told you that your affections are...not one-sided.”

She sounds so awkward, so unsure, but earnest, like this is the most important thing she has ever said. Kyra can’t quite believe her ears, her mind blanking out, just a solid string of white noise, and she is reeling with the implications of Cassandra’s words.

“I - wait. You mean...” She can’t even say it, the words stuck in her throat like speaking them aloud will destroy this fantasy world she seems to have fallen into. But Cassandra must read the intent behind her silence: she chuckles, a low rumble from deep in her throat that sends shivers down Kyra’s spine, and leans closer, her mouth inches from the tip of Kyra’s ear. Any coherent thought Kyra had left flees at the sensation of Cassandra’s warm breath on her skin. She smells like flowers and like steel, familiar and beloved, and it takes all of Kyra’s willpower to keep from melting into a puddle of achy desire and instead focus on Cassandra’s words. If this is what she thinks (hopes, prays) it is, she does not want to miss it because she was too distracted to pay attention. When Cassandra does speak, it is in a whisper, like she is imparting a secret the world is not meant to know.

“I love you, Kyra Lavellan.”

Kyra makes a strangled noise in her throat, somewhere between a whine and a moan, as her knees buckle, Cassandra’s tight grip on her hips the only thing keeping her from sliding down the wall. She reaches out to Cassandra, clutching just above her elbows to steady herself. Cassandra’s breath hitches, a sharp, startled sound, and she pulls back just far enough to look Kyra in the eye. Her eyes are wide, dark in a way Kyra has seen before but never known quite how to interpret. Except...oh, Creators, it’s desire, isn't it?

 _Fuck_. How long has Cassandra felt this way and Kyra was too caught up in her own emotions to notice? How much time have they wasted?

“Can I -”

Kyra is nodding even before Cassandra can finish the question, her hands sliding from Cassandra’s arms up to her shoulders. “Yeah,” she says, more a breath than a word. The corner of Cassandra’s mouth quirks up and Kyra wants to bite it. Which...she can do that now, can’t she? The knowledge overwhelms her and for a moment she can’t breathe, caught up in the world of possibilities now open to her.

“I didn’t finish -” Cassandra begins but Kyra cuts her off once more.

“Doesn’t matter.” And it doesn’t, not really. Not in any way that is at all important. “Answer’s still yes.” She lets out a shaky giggle, giddy with relief and desire and so much love she is dizzy with it. “Besides, I’ve kind of got an inkling and if I’m right, answer’s really more of a _‘please’_.”

Cassandra huffs out a laugh, so close Kyra can almost taste it. But almost isn’t enough, not anymore. If it ever was.

“In that case, I hadn’t expected you would be so passive.”

There is a gentle teasing in her voice that Kyra almost misses at the realization that Cassandra has _thought about this_ and that is one more revelation than she is equipped to deal with just now. She manages a wobbly smile.

“Yeah, well, you’re eight inches taller than I am and you’re holding me down,” she points out, because it’s not like she hasn’t considered it. “I can’t _reach_.”

Cassandra’s eyes widen and she snatches her hands away as though burned. Which, no, that is the exact opposite of what Kyra needs to be happening right now.

“I’m sorry. I -”

Kyra cuts her off with a roll of her eyes and reaches out to pull Cassandra’s hands back to where they belong, warm on the curve of Kyra’s hips.

“I didn’t say I minded,” she chides, though the way she gasps out the words makes them less condemnatory than they might otherwise have been. She reaches up to drape her arms around Cassandra’s neck and arches an eyebrow in challenge. “Just means if you want to kiss me you’re damn well going to have to come down here and _kiss me_.”

 _Fuck_. Did she really just say that?

Cassandra is laughing even as she closes the distance between them and their first kiss is barely more than a brush of their mouths, the both of them smiling too much to manage anything more coordinated. Kyra doesn’t care; it is perfect.

But she also has six months’ worth of repressed want and desire and even that brief press of Cassandra’s mouth against hers is enough to drive away any thought of laughter or teasing or anything that isn’t finally, finally discovering just what it takes to make Cassandra fall apart. When Cassandra starts to pull away Kyra slips a hand around the back of her neck, short hair soft against her skin, and pulls her back down. There is nothing tentative about this kiss, a fierce clash of lips and teeth and tongue that is just this side of desperate. Kyra’s heart is pounding so hard she feels like it will burst out of her chest and she cannot suppress the quiet groan that rises in her throat, lost in the heat of Cassandra’s mouth. She tastes like home, familiar in a way that Kyra cannot begin to explain, and though Kyra has lost count of the number of times she has imagined this exact scenario, none of them hold a candle to the real thing.

Cassandra’s hands on her hips hold her in place, grip tight enough that there will be marks there later, little fingerprint bruises that Kyra cannot bring herself to mind: they are proof that this happened, that this was something more than the fever dream of a lovesick mind. Arousal curls low in her belly, a rush of heat that has her arching up against the hands holding her down, desperate to close even that last bit of space between them. She latches her fingers into the front of Cassandra’s dress shirt, the once-crisp creases now ruined beyond repair, and yanks her forward - if she cannot move to Cassandra then she will move Cassandra to her. It shouldn’t have worked, not really, but Cassandra is distracted enough (by Kyra, she is kissing Kyra and it is distracting her and fuck if that knowledge isn’t utterly intoxicating, Kyra’s head spinning with it) that she allows it, stumbling forward until her entire body is flush against Kyra’s and yes, this was the best idea Kyra has ever had.

Kyra’s entire world narrows down to the heat of Cassandra’s body against hers, the strong fingers Cassandra twines through her hair, tugging at her curls just hard enough for Kyra to feel it over the rush of sensations that are almost too much to bear. Cassandra is making ragged little gasping noises, nearly lost in their kiss, and oh, Kyra needs to hear those every day for the rest of her life. Her body is on fire, her chest tight with it; it is too much and not enough all at the same time and Kyra _aches_. She pushes forward, teeth nipping at Cassandra’s lower lip and her hand on the curve of Cassandra’s back, feeling the subtle play of taut muscles beneath her palm.

Cassandra pulls back with a quiet moan and drops her forehead to Kyra’s shoulder, breath hot and damp against Kyra’s neck. Kyra just shifts her attention to the sharp curve of Cassandra’s jaw, mouthing her way toward her ear, Cassandra’s skin salt and silk beneath her tongue as she shivers in Kyra’s arms.

“ _Kyra_ ,” Cassandra whispers, voice hoarse. The broken sound of her name in _that_ voice, so close to her ear, pulls a needy little whimper from Kyra’s throat, and when she yanks Cassandra’s mouth back to hers there is a ferocity there that wasn’t there before, a hunger in how she licks her way into Cassandra’s mouth, graceless and devouring. She feels Cassandra yield to her kiss, letting Kyra take the lead, and she knows she should back off, should slow down, but Creators, she doesn’t want to.

“Cass,” she whines, drawing back just enough to be heard, the name ghosting across Cassandra’s lips. Cassandra’s eyes flutter open, heavy with a desire that knocks the breath from Kyra’s lungs. Whatever it is she intended to say vanishes and what comes out of her mouth instead is a gasped, “Can I - I want...”

Cassandra huffs out a heated laugh and without letting go of Kyra she pulls them both away from the wall before pressing another kiss to Kyra’s mouth, hard and fast and fierce.

“Stop talking,” she orders, the words coming out too close to as gasp for there to be any kind of real authority behind them, “and take me to bed.”

And authority or no, Kyra scrambles to obey.

 

* * *

 

It is only much later, curled up together in the disaster they have made of Kyra’s sheets, damp with sweat and with the scent of sex still lingering in the air, that it occurs to Kyra that she has neglected to ask a very important question. She lifts her head from where she had been resting against Cassandra’s shoulder, half-asleep and reveling in the closeness she is suddenly allowed, and looks up at Cassandra.

Her breath catches in her throat at the sight of Cassandra’s head on Kyra’s pillow, eyes closed and face still flushed from exertion. Even now, after everything, she still hasn’t quite gotten used to the idea of a Cassandra who loves her, who wants her. She wonders if she ever will.

“Hey, Cass?” she says, voice barely more than a whisper. Cassandra lets out a quiet hum of acknowledgment without opening her eyes, her fingers tracing lazy patterns along the curve of Kyra’s spine. “Does this mean we’re dating?” She keeps her voice light, as though she is joking (she isn’t). It earns her a huff of a laugh as Cassandra opens her eyes to regard her with a fond smile.

“Kyra, dearest-” and Kyra absolutely does not melt at the endearment; she doesn’t “-we have been dating for months. It merely took me a while to realize it.”

“Oh.” Relief floods Kyra and she laughs, a little light headed. “Good.”

Cassandra’s hand drifts away from Kyra’s back to tuck a stray curl behind a pointed ear and she arches a curious eyebrow.

“What is so funny?” she demands. Kyra doesn’t quite know how to explain the giddiness that comes from letting go of months of stress and anxiety and she doesn’t really want to try. Not right now. Instead she just beams down at Cassandra, bright and indescribably happy.

“So I guess I shouldn’t worry that you’ll think I’m easy for putting out before the first date, then?” she manages between giggles.

Cassandra’s disgusted noise fills the space between them as she presses forward, smothering Kyra’s laughter in the warmth of her kiss.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Heartlines](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8367904) by [nirroca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirroca/pseuds/nirroca)




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